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IN AN EVIL HOUR 

AND 

OTHER STORIES. 


/ 

By “THE DUCHESS.” 


( \ o; - 




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2 Molly Bawn 

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14 Airy Fairy Lilian 

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25 Mrs. Geoffrey. (Large type edition) . 

950 Mrs. Geoffrey 

29 Beauty’s Daughters 

30 Faith and Un faith 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and Eric Dering 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d .... 

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129 Rossinoyne 

134 The Witching Hour, and Other Stories 
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404 In Durance Vile, and Other Stories 

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494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Barbara 
517 A Passive Crime, and Other Stories . 

541 “ As it Fell Upon a Day ” 

733 Lady Branksmere 

771 A Mental Struggle 

785 The Haunted Chamber 

862 Ugly Barrington 

875 Lady Valworth’s Diamonds . . . . . 

1009 In An Evil Hour, and Other Stories 


PRICE. 

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10 

10 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

20 


CONTENTS, 


IN AN EVIL HOUR 

“NONE SO BLIND ” 

ON TRIAL . 


THEIR LAST RESOURCE 




IN AN EVIL HOUR. 


All his world was openly astonished when it heard that 
old Grantham had given his pretty daughter to Geoffrey 
Carden — a man grave to a fault, and not so many years 
her father’s junior. He was a widower; he was forty; at 
all events he was thirty-eight; of a nature so calm, so un- 
demonstrative, that he seemed the last, one would have 
thought, to give his life into the keei^ing of a baby like 
Susie Grantham! — a pretty creature, who, though she 
might be nineteen in reality, looked barely sixteen, and was 
as light-hearted as a kitten. She looked indeed absurdly 
young for her age. “ A gigantic fraud,” she called her- 
self, which used to make her father laugh, she was such a 
bit of a thing. 

Carden’s extreme gravity arose no doubt from the fact 
that his past had been a singularly unhappy one. He had 
married when very young a woman of the worst type, if 
in a good social position, and time had developed her into 
a dishonest creature, who finally gave herself up a prey to 
drink, and who died, after many years, in an obscure Ger- 
man village. This tragic story gave a melancholy color to 
his expression, that to some appeared as sternness, but it 
did not prevent his falling passionately, boyishly, in love 
with Susie. 


8 


IN AN EVIL HOUK. 


He was an unusually rich man, and Mr. Grantham, who 
had known him for years and had cause to respect him, 
was pleased when he declared himself a suitor for his 
daughter’s hand. She was his only child, yet it seemed to 
him then that he could desii^ nothing better for her. As 
for Susie herself, she accepted the matrimonial scheme with 
charming insouciance^ being without much thought for 
such matters. She grew so accustomed to Mr. Carden’s 
perpetual visits, and was always so delighted with the bon- 
bons and trinkets and other pretty things he lavished upon 
her, especially the bonbons, that she became quite fond of 
him before the final proposal was made, and accepted him 
without a fear. A husband she plainly regarded in the 
light of an appendage as necessary as her terrier, though it 
must be confessed she spent far more time over the selec- 
tion of the latter. 

All the elderly maiden relatives on both sides were much 
exercised as to how this strange marriage would succeed. 
For the first three months it worked wonderfully well. 
Carden’s brow lost a good deal of its gravity, and Susie, 
instead of growing more sedate, became positively younger. 

“ She was altogether too absurd!” said the elderly ones 
in chorus, and a second cousin, stronger-minded than the 
rest, insisted on Mr. Carden’s buying a velvet gown of a 
good dark shade, and a matronly bonnet that suited her — 
the cousin. From these, great things were expected; but, 
alas! when Susie stood in them, hope fell dead. She 
looked indeed lovely, but grotesque. She was for all the 
world like a little girl who had found some clothes of 
grandma’s, and had put them on with a view to looking 


IN AN EVIL HOUR. 


9 


grown-up. She was exquisite, but more than ever a 
baby. 

Her father roared with laughter when he saw her in the 
bonnet, and Carden insisted on her giving it up. It made 
her ten, he said, and him a hundred; so, perforce, Susie 
(who had a sneaking affection for it) put it away. She 
took out the mounting feathers, lowered the pride of the 
bows, turned it upside down and lined it with cotton- wool; 
tied the strings into a fanciful knot, and, slinging it across 
her arm, put her two white mice into it and called it a 
cradle. 

She had a special fancy for the park, and every evening 
during May and J une might be seen there sitting in her 
carriage with the terrier. Chin-chin, beside her. On oc- 
casions such as these Chin-chin was solemnity itself, and 
as he sat on the cushion on her left hand very erect, with 
his ears stiff and his eyes glancing indignantly around in 
search of the foe, he looked a very dragon of a chaperon. 
Mrs. Carden was not fond of girl companions, having been 
brought up entirely without them; and as the spinsters be- 
fore mentioned were, to say the least of it, trying, she pre- 
ferred to drive alone. 

One exquisite evening toward the close of May she and 
Chin-chin were driving slowly there, up and down 
amongst the other carriages. The rhododendrons were in 
full bloom, and many other flowers made gay the beds. So 
sweet indeed was the breath of the many blossoms that 
almost one forgot the smoke and turmoil of town that lay 
but a few yards away, and began to believe that the real 
country had been reached at last. 


10 


IIT AN EVIL HOUR. 


Presently there was a slight turning of heads and a whis- 
per that the princess was coming; then a little block 
amongst the carriages. Susie, who was in the line next 
the railings, feeling herself come to a standstill, raised 
her eyes, and let them wander incuriously over the many 
loungers near her. After a moment or two a strange sense 
of discomfort took possession of her. She felt restless, 
embarrassed; and then, as if impelled to it, turned her 
glance a little to the right. There she met full the admir- 
ing gaze of a pair of handsome blue eyes. 

She blushed warmly in spite of herself, and — just a degree 
too late to prevent the blush being seen — changed her po- 
sition. She could no longer be vexed by that earnest re- 
gard, but unfortunately she was not able to forget that 
she had seen it. There grew upon her an uncomfortable 
feeling that those blue eyes were still fixed on her, though 
now they could see nothing but the soft updrawing of the 
hair at the back of her head. And though she had told 
herself that the owner of them was rude beyond pardon, 
that did not enable her to put him out of her thoughts. 
Mingled with all this annoyance was a nervous, irresistible 
desire for laughter, which she concealed by bending over 
Chin-chin, the grave. She was honestly glad when the 
carriages once more moved onward, and she could give the 
coachman the order for home. 

As for the rude young man, he made it his afternoon^s 
business to discover who she was. It was the simplest 
matter, as almost the third man he met told him all he 
wished to know: “ Daughter of Grantham. He knew 
Grantham? Wife of Carden, that prince amongst mer- 


IN' AN EVIL HOUE. 


11 


chants. She was one of the richest women in town, and 
lier liusband was an old fogy. Did they get on? was he 
jealous, eh? Oh, no doubt, no doubt. That sort of 
arrangement rarely answered; and there was something 
rather special about her, eh?^^ 

So far all was decidedly satisfactory. Mr. Grantham 
was an old friend of the rude young man’s father, whose 
name was Disney, and an introduction there might easily 
be managed. Then would follow an introduction to the 
“ old fogy ” — then to his wife; or perhaps he might 
meet her at Mr. Grantham’s; no doubt she often went to 
her father’s house to escape being tyrannized over by her 
husband — already he had come to the conclusion that the 
lord and master of that lovely girl was not only decrepit 
but a shameless despot. 

A week later saw his desire fulfilled. Calling one morn- 
ing on Mr. Grantham, card in hand, he found himself very 
kindly received, ' but in a manner that bespoke haste and 
preoccupation. Being on his best behavior, he at once, but 
delicately, took notice of this. Yes, Mr. Grantham con- 
fessed he was much hurried, and anxious to get to the City 
at once; would Mr. Disney pardon him? He begged he 
would not leave the house, however, but would permit his 
daughter, Mrs. Carden (who was just now staying with him 
for a day or two during her husband’s unavoidable ab- 
sence), to act as his deputy. She was upstairs in the 
drawing-room, she would be very pleased to see him, she 
had often heard him speak of his father. Colonel Disney, 
etc. 

He rang the bell, and Disney followed a servant up the 


12 


IN AN EVIL HOUE. 


broad staircase, who presently threw open a door and an- 
nounced him in a mumbling fashion. He then withdrevv, 
leaving the startled visitor uncertain as to whether he 
should advance or retire. Certainly the scene presented to 
him was a distinctly novel one in his range of experiences, 
and Disney did not attempt to deny even to himself that 
he was somewhat taken aback. 

Was this the sedate young lady he had seen in her car- 
riage? Where was the severity that then had marked her? 
— the dignity? Gone to the winds, apparently! That 
young lady was now in full pursuit of a terrier (deceitful 
terrier! where now was that pretense at decorum?), that, 
barking loudly and with all his might, was plunging about 
the room, under and over the ottomans, behind the 
lounges, through the intricate legs of the bijou tables, and 
in fact everywhere, in a boldly ubiquitous fashion. The 
erstwhile solemn Chin-chin had evidently entered into the 
spirit of the thing, and, hotly pursued by his mistress, was 
having quite a good time of it. 

The mistress was laughing as heartily as the dog was 
barking, and, beyond question, was enjoying herself as 
much as he. She stopped dead short, however, as Disney 
entered the room, and gazed at him blankly. 

She looked lovely. Far lovelier, even, than on that au- 
spicious day when, first his eyes met hers. She was fiushed, 
her breath came quickly through her parted lips; she was ' 
like a happy child, with her soft, ruffled locks and gleam- 
ing, starry eyes. Two brilliant spots of color adorned 
each cheek. As she stood staring at Disney she grew 
adorably confused, and murmured “ Oh!^^ quite naturally 


IN AN EVIL HOUB. 


13 


beneath her breath. Indeed, if she had put her slender 
forefinger in between her rosy lips it would not have sur- 
prised him, or seemed to him out of place. 

“ I suppose I ought to apologize for intruding at this 
unearthly honr,^’ he said, advancing toward her. “lam 
afraid you did not hear my name, servants have such a 
strange language of their own — Disney. Your father, who 
sent me up to you, gave me a hope that it would not be 
altogether unknown to you.’^ 

It was, however. Susie, though she conscientiously 
racked her brain to find some memory of the word Disney, 
still remained so hopelessly ignorant of it that her face be- 
trayed her. He was the young man who had stared at her 
the other day, that was all she knew. 

“ Never mind,^^ said Disney, who saw she did not recol- 
lect his name, and that it did not occur to her to tell a lie 
about it. “ My father was a friend of yours long ago, so 
I wish you would let me hope that toe may be friends in 
the future. ” 

This was making hay with a vengeance; but he said it 
with such a beaming countenance that he carried all before 
him, and she put her hand in his. She looked at him, 
however, rather gravely. 

“ It was you,^^ she said, “ who — who stared at me in 
the park — last week. 

An nncomfortable fear that he was going to laugh here 
made Disney miserable. He conquered, however, the vile 
inclination, and, with a most becoming contrition, said 
gently: 

“ I had been so hoping you had not noticed that. It has 


14 


IN’ AN EVIL HOUR. 


been such a deep regret to me ever since; bnt^^ — an/artful 
pause— “it was so difficult to — Then very gently: 
“ You should be the last to blame me.’^ He stooped for- 
ward and patted the head of Chin-chin. “ This is the 
little dog you had with you, isuT it?^^ he asked, with 
charming audacity. 

“ Yes.^^ This mention of her favorite reminded her of 
her escapade of a moment since, and she blushed warmly. 
“ He is a terrible dog,” she said; “ so flighty!’^ 

“ Dear me,^^ returned Disney, thoughtfully. “ From 
the momentary glance I caught of liim that day in the car- 
riage I should have thought him the very soul of pro- 
priety.^^ 

That’s it,” said Mrs. Carden eagerly. “He is de- 
ceptive in little ways like that, though such a good dog all 
through. Abroad he plays at dignity, at home — ” She 
paused eloquently, and then went on: “ You can’t think 
what a trouble he is. He makes me play with him 
whether I like it or not. And — of course it is always not. 
I really never ivant to run after him, but he barks so if I 
don’t do it, that — ” She failed here in her veracious his- 
tory, and, catching Disney’s eye, they both burst out 
laughing. 

Her laugh he found was musical and perfectly spontane- 
ous. He thought her quite as charming as he had ex- 
pected her to be. He was delighted with her in the light 
of a discovery. He was not a society villain; he was by 
no means the elegant insidious creature with tawny mus- 
tache and cynical speech, of whom we sometimes read. 
He had had no evil design sealed and signed in liis mind 


m AN EVIL HOUR. 


15 


when desiring to make her acquaintance. There was 
nothing in itj^ indeed, beyond the fact that he was a pleas- 
ure-loving young man, that he thought her out of the 
common, pret\y, and that all pretty faces were a joy to 
him. 

He had been in love scores of times, and always honestly 
believed the last recipient of his affections to be the one 
woman in the world ’for him. But now as he gazed at 
Susie, who was smiling at him and chattering to him in 
the most confiding manner, he told himself that his time 
was at last come. During all the yesterdays he might have 
imagined he had loved, but to-day he knew. All his 
former philandering was as naught; here, within tliis 
hour, he had found his fate. 

Susie, once she had got over the first shock of his en- 
trance, grew very gay, and amused him so well that he was 
horror-stricken on finding after awhile that he had been 
boring her for a whole hour. He started to liis feet, but 
she would not hear of his going before luncheon. 

“ I shall be all alone, she said, beginning to look quite 
plaintive. “ Mr. Carden is out of town, and papa never 
comes home till seven; it will be dull, of course, but if you 
would only stay — it will be such a comfort. Oh! you will? 
Oh! that is very good of you.” 

He was so very good! He kindly consented to stay, 
whilst feeling that it would not be in earthly power to drag 
him from the spot so long as she desired his presence. 
Presently the gong sounded, and, gathering up Chin-chin 
under her arm, she led the way to the dining-room. 


16 


IN AN EVIL HOUll. 


For three months, as has been said, even up to the 
event of Mr. Disney^s appearance on the scene, everything 
went well in the Carden menage. And then, all in a sec- 
ond, as it were, a cloud gathered and fell. There was no 
leading up to it. It fell suddenly. Cardenas face grew 
graver, sterner than ever, and those who knew him best 
noticed that a curious fear was mingled with the gravity. 

What had happened? "Was the '•young wife in fault? 
The old Tabbies shook their heads and hinted darkly at 
jealousy, and the cousin who had bought the cradle for the 
white mice whispered the word “ Othello!’’ in a dim cor- 
ner. A color was given to this solution of the mystery by 
the fact that Carden could not bear to let his wife out of 
his sight in these latter days, going with her wherever she 
went, and following her unceasingly with his eyes in what- 
ever company they might be. 

The girl seemed to grow restless beneath this surveil- 
lance, and her expression became noticeably nervous. By 
and by the air was stirred with the news that the Cardens 
would go nowhere. They had withdrawn almost entirely 
from society, and people began to whisper amongst them- 
selves that he had forbidden her to accept any invitations. 
Truly this was Othello with a vengeance! They began to 
speculate as to whether he would have recourse to the pil- 
lows or the divorce court, and all felt that the latter would 
be tame. 

Mr. Grantham grew uneasy and said a word or two to 
Susie about it, but little came of his inquiry. Geoffrey 
did not care to go out of late, she said; she did not know 
why, but so it was, and she did not care to go out without 


IN AN EVIL HOUK. 


17 


him. She said all this very simply, just as one might 
who was telling the truth; but her father did not believe 
her. She was hiding something, he felt sure. Her 2)ale 
little face smote him to the heart, and he began to have 
terrible moments in which he blamed himself for helping 
on the marriage. “ May and December kept ringing in 
his ears. How if she had found out her mistake too late, 
and was repenting her of having married a man all but 
twice her age? 

She looked dull and dispirited, and the soft, merry, irre- 
sistible laugh that used to echo through the house was now 
silent. He would have spoken to Carden, but there was 
something in Cardenas face at this time that forbade him. 

He would have liked to discuss the matter with Disney, 
who had become quite a friend of his, but he felt that 
would not do either. The young man had taken to drop- 
ping in on all occasions,* and the older man found that there 
was much pleasure to be derived from his society. He was 
also, he knew, a friend of Susie^s, meeting her, as he did, 
so frequently at his house; though, strange to say, Disney 
and Carden were as yet strangers. Yet, however kindly 
disposed the young fellow might feel toward Susie, Mr. 
Grantham felt he was not at liberty to discuss with him or 
any one her most private affairs. He was sitting in his 
study brooding miserably over all this, when Disney him- 
self walked in. 

“Oh! you,^^ said Mr. Grantham, rising to welcome him. 
“ You\e been out of town, havenT you? I remember 
that, because I missed you so much. 

“ That’s very good of you,” said Disney, who had really 


18 


IN AN EVIL HOUR. 


‘grown quite attached to “ the old gentleman/^ as he called 
him: if not the rose, you see, he was very near it. “ Yes, 
IVe been down in Hampshire with the governor, but a lit- 
tle of it goes a long way, so here I am again. 

“ I'm glad of it,” said Mr. Grantham, nervously. “ The 
fact is, I've got business to see to that will keep me from 
home until evening, and my daughter Mrs. Carden is stay- 
ing with me just now., and if you think you could stay to 
luncheon and try to chee — to — er — that is, help her to get 
through the day, I'd be much obliged to you.” 

“ I'll be delighted,'' said Disney, delicately ignoring the 
other's confusion. “ Not that I see where I shall come in 
as useful. I'm rather afraid I shall be in her way. 
AVhere is she now?'' 

“ Upstairs arranging the flowers, I think.” 

“ Ah! I dare say I can wait upon her at that work,” 
said Disney, laughing. He rose. 

“ And if you could come to dinner?'' said Mr. Gran- 
tham, still nervously. This young fellow with his endless 
small talk and genial smile might throw a little brightness 
into her day. He had often noticed how well he and she 
got on together. 

“ Thank you,” said Disney. “ Same hour, I suppose?” 

“Half-past seven, yes,” said Mr. Grantham, almost 
gratefully. 

Disney went up to the morning-room, where he knew 
he should find her. A whole week had gone by since last 
he saw her, a week that had. seemed to him the longest he 
had ever spent. He opened the door with ill-suppressed 
eagerness and entered the room. 


IN AN EVIL HOUE. 


19 


She stood at a table near the window, bending over a 
heap of blossoms that lay scattered before her. Her face 
was slightly turned from him, but he could see her. Good 
heavens! how changed! The listless air, the tired eyes, 
the languid movement of the slender fingers that used to 
be so quick, so prettily active. Her mouth had taken a 
little mournful curve. 

He hesitated at the door, looking at her, hardly able to 
believe it was the same light-hearted little girl of a mouth 
ago, who had been running after her dog in and out 
amongst the intricacies of the furniture. After a moment 
she saw him, and blushed faintly as he came toward her. 
She smiled, but he coidd not fail to see that the smile, 
though kindly meant, was rather strained. He took her 
hand and held it closely. 

“ What has happened to you?’^ he said, abruptly. 

“ What a strange question! What should ha23pen?^^ 
She spoke lightly, but a distressed look came into her love- 
ly eyes. 

“ Ah! That is just what I want to know. I have not 
seen you for a week, and now to find you so changed, so 
pale — 

He paused, and the distressed look grew into a sort of 
terror, and she moved her hand restlessly in his as if to 
draw it away This reminded him that he still held it, 
and he at once let it go. 

“ I beg your pardon,’^ he said, hastily. “ I had forgot- 
ten. There was another thing I was thinking of. You 
wonT be angry with me, will you?’’ She shook her head. 
“ Then, if you are in any trouble, and if I can help you — ” 


20 


IN AN EVIL HOUR. 


lie stopped, a little afraid of wliat he had said, but he 
could see she was not augry at all, and. that she was re- 
garding him very kindly. 

“ No. You could not help me,” she said, gently. This 
seemed to him a tacit acknowledgment that there toas 
trouble somewhere. 

“ There is something, then?’^ he said. “ If you would 
only tell me — ” 

She shook her head, again. 

“ I couldnT,^^ she said. “ I — donT know it myself. ” 

She turned away and went back to her flowers. She 
looked nervous, unstrung, and there was a curious per- 
plexity about her. Disney felt indignation growing 
strong within him. Of course, it was that brute of a hus- 
band! He had been playing the tyrant more successfully 
than usual, no doubt, and the poor little thing, like all 
good women, would rather die than betray him. He felt 
his heart quite flowing over with pity for her — and we all 
know what that is akin to. 

It came upon him very forcibly at this moment that he 
certainly did love her. A true lover should fly to his 
“ Ladye’s 7 rescue. But how to deliver her from this 
yoke she bore? — she looked so small, so fragile. Younger 
than ever, it seemed to him, although she had lost the girl- 
ish gayety that had been such a sweet part of her, and the 
happy laugh that had rung in his ears ever since- he first 
heard it. Poor little Fatima! Bluebeard had murdered all 
that! 

Well! he would try to cheer her up a bit, as the old gen- 
. tleman had asked him to do. So he too went over to the 


IN AN EVIL HOUR. 


21 


flowers, and began sorting them and putting them to- 
gether, with the air of a connoisseur but a melancholy at- 
temjit at effect. Thus falling foul of her flowers, he 
perched himself on the edge of the table and began form- 
ing them into a bouquet that had no regard for the com- 
fort of the eyes. 

“ You didnT know, perhaps,” said he, “ that I was a 
genius at this sort of thing? Many and many^s the time I 
have been offered a handsome income by florists who shall 
be nameless, if I would only give up my present arduous 
occupation, and lend them my experience in the art of 
flower-grouping. An artistic eye for color is everything. 
See this now — holding up a terrible combination of tints. 
“Fine catching effect, eh! No, not a word! I would 
have you study this posy. And if you would lika a lesson or 
two, free of charge — why, as you are a friend of mine, I — ” 

He held up to her the posy in question; as ugly a thing 
as sweet flowers could ever be brought to look, and she 
laughed aloud, quite heartily, and shrugged up her 
shoulders, and, forgetting everything for the moment, put 
on one of her old delicious saucy little moties that used to 
delight him. 

It was just at this instant that the door opened, and 
Carden came in. 

He saw her as she stood there, with Disney sitting on 
the table near her! A young pair, smiling in the midst of 
flowers! He saw again the merry child he had married, 
he saw she was laughing as she had not laughed with him 
for many a day, and he saw too, alas! how the laugh died 
on her parted lips, as her eyes met his. 


22 


IN AN EVIL HOUR. 


She paled perceptibly. Disney saw it all too— this 
sorrowful tableau — aud his wrath waxed warm within him. 
Why, the fellow was no better than a detective! Pouucinof 
in upon her like this, just to see w'hat she was at. Deuced 
low, he called it — out of all form. He knew Carden very 
well by sight, as Carden knew him, and he could not fail 
to see that the man w\as pale, haggard, terribly worn in 
appearance. (“Temper!’^ concluded Mr. Disney, shortly.) 

“ I did not know you were coming here this morning,’’ 
said Mrs. Carden. She spoke timidly, as it seemed to 
Disney, and beyond one impetuous step in her husband’s 
direction, which she immediately checked, she made no 
effort to greet him, though he knew they had not seen 
each other since the previous day. 

“ Ho. It was a mere chance, my coming in now. I had 
a message for your father, and then they told me you were 
here— and — Your father is out, but it is of little conse- 
quence.” His tone was weary; and he ceased speaking 
suddenly, as though the power to go on was beyond him. 
(“ Suppressing himself,” according to Mr. Disney.) 

“ If you will leave the message with me — or if you 
would come to dinner to-night — Papa has asked me to stay 
until Friday,” said Mrs. Carden, rather disconnectedly. 

“ Has her I am glad of that,” returned her husband, 
slowly. 

Mrs. Carden shrunk a little, as if hurt, and turned her 
face away. 

{“ Afraid he’ll see how relieved she is that there is no 
opposition to this arrangement,” decided Disney, who 
really might have taken precedence as a thought-reader.) 


IN’ AN EVIL HOUR. 


23 


“ Ah, then I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at 
dinner, Mrs. Carden, he said, gayly. “When your fa- 
ther just now asked me to come this evening, I had no idea 
such luck was in store for me.’ ' This wasn’t strictly true, 
but Mr. Disney’s air was truth itself. 

Carden had moved as if to leave the room; he now 
stopped and looked at his wife. 

“ You have not introduced me to your friend,” he said. 

Mrs. Carden went through the introduction, and the two 
men, who had for so long known each other by sight only, 
were now made acquainted. Carden bowed formally. 
Into Disney’s bow that young man managed to infuse a 
good deal of righteous unfriendliness, and he thought the 
earnest, penetrating glance bestowed on him by Carden 
bordered on impertinence. 

“You -will come to dinner, Geoffrey?” asked Mrs. 
Carden again. (“Burning to know her fate,” thought 
Disney.) Carden did not answer for a moment, and 
then — 

“ No. I think not. No,” he said, in a low tone. He 
hesitated as if he would have said something more, but 
changed his mind and went toward the door. When there 
he looked back. 

“ You should shut that window behind your back,” he 
said; “you know you have a slight cold.” His voice 
sounded dull and tired. He went out and shut the door 
gently behind him. He got half-way down the staircase, 
and then paused on one of the broad steps and stood silent, 
his hand on the baluster. All at once a vision had arisen 
before him — two young people laughing together, their 


24 


IN AN EVIL HOUR. 


hands laden with flowers. Flowers, youth, laughter! 
Truly all those should go together. What had middle age 
to do with them? He felt unnerved, as though he had 
sustained a sudden shock — and. frightened. It was an ab- 
surd feeling for a strong man like him, but he could not 
shake it off. Of late, what cruel, relentless Fate was pur- 
suing him! and now this— well! it was only just. He 
bowed his head and lifted his hand to his face, which had 
grown ghastly. 

Then the weakness passed, and with a heavy sigh he 
lifted his head. No, he would not beheve this last mis- 
ery; no — not yet. 

* 4 : * * * * 

Disney having now entirely convinced himself of his un- 
changeable affection for Mrs. Carden, she naturally occu- 
pied a good deal of his thoughts. That she was wretched 
with Carden was beyond a doubt, but how to rescue her 
from the Tyrant (he always pronounced it with a big T), 
that was the question. It seemed a forlorn hope. So 
long as the laws that now existed in this land held good, 
he saw no chance of being able to loosen the bonds that 
hurt her. Carden did not look like a man who would be 
“found out;^’ no “naughty, naughty story would at- 
tach itself to him. Of that Disney felt assured. Yes, 
cruel as the man undoubtedly was to that pretty lovable 
creature, there was nothing dishonorable in his antecedents. 

And yet the very next night put him in possession of a 
fact that, stolid young Briton as he was, drove the color 
from his cheek. Nothing could be done at the moment, 
but early the following morning, having spent 9, sleepless 


IN' AN EVIL HOUR. 


25 


night, he tore down in a hansom to the old house in Har- 
ley Street and burst into Mr. Grantham’s study with a 
white face and a very nervous manner. 

“ It is an early hour, Mr. Grantham,” he began, with 
much agitation; “ but — but when you hear what I have to 
tell, you will, I know, excuse my thus rushing in upon 
you.” He paused through some excitement, and Mr. 
Grantham turned to him a pale, startled face. The 
younger man leaned toward him across the table. 

“ Have you noticed,” he asked, in a low, constrained 
tone, “ that of late your daughter has not apjieared to be 
— er — specially hapjiy?” 

At this Mr. Grantham rose to his feet. “ AVhatever you 
have to say,” he said, “ say it at once. It is — of her ?” 

There was terrible anguish in his voice. 

“ Of her 9 No; but of — Mr. Grantham, you will hate 
me, perhaps, for being the bearer of this evil news; but 
surely, if your daughter is unhappy in her marriage, it is 
better that she should be released from it. ” 

“ Go on,” said Grantham, feebly. “ If not of her, you 
spoke of Carden. What of him?” 

“Just this. That his marriage with your daughter is 
illegal. ” He stood up and held out a hand that trembled. 
“ His first wife is — still living !” 

Mr. Grantham sunk back in his chair. 

“ It isn’t true — it isn’t possible!” he said, presently. 
“ To tell me Carden is a villain, is to tell me the whole 
world is false. I’ll not believe it. Is he the man to come 
here and marry my girl, knowing all the while that — ” 

“ Ah! but he did not know it. He thought that first 


26 


IN AN EVIL HOUR. 


woman dead this many a year. But it appears she lied to 
him, sent him a false report of her death, and only a 
month ago turned up — well — sufficiently alive to make his 
second marriage a thing of naught. 

He made a little sweeping movement with his hand. He 
felt unfeigned grief for the pain he was causing this old 
man, who sat bowed and crushed in his chair, but he could 
not forget that here was a way of escape for Susie. 

“A month ugo!’^ said Mr. Grantham. “A whole 
month! All that time he knew my poor child was not his 
wife, and j^et — Oh! I would not have believed it of 
him!” 

“ Well, you know, ’tis deuced hard to know how any of 
us would act under such circumstances,” said Disney, 
who felt he might now allow himself to be magnanimous 
toward the fallen foe. “ I don't altogether blame him 
myself. It would take a very plucky fellow to speak such 
a truth right out. But what I am afraid is that he might 
have let it go on forever; and — and at all events I thought 
it better that you should know." 

“ There is no question about that,” said Mr. Grantham, 
mournfully. 

He covered his face with his hands. “ My poor Susie! 
my poor little girl!” he murmured, brokenly. Disney was 
horrified to find that he was crying, and that the heavy 
tears were running through his fingers. “ It ccmH be 
true,” he cried again, after awhile. ‘‘Tell me all you 
know of this diabolical story, and perhaps I may find a 
flaw in it.” 

But there was no flaw in the story tliat Disney with 


IN AN EVIL HOUK. 


37 


honest regret unfolded to him. When it was finished, Mr. 
Grantham had grown quite calm, though indignation 
seemed to burn hotly within him. 

“ Susie must be told, and at once,^^ he said. “ Fortu- 
nately, her attachment to him was not deej), and, as you 
say, of late has died altogether. It was the most black- 
guardly thing I ever heard, his concealing this matter. I 
could forgive anything but that. Yes, she owes him noth- 
ing. He rambled on thus, rather incoherently, but 
Disney kept him to the point. 

“Who is to tell Mrs. Carden?'^ he asked. “Is she 
still with you?” 

“Yes, but to-day she was to go home. Home! This 
is her home henceforth, poor child. You may remember 
she promised to stay with me till Friday. Good heavens, 
what an unlucky day! And as to telling her — ” 

“ You must do it,^^ said Disney, firmly. 

Mr. Grantham shrunk away from him involuntarily. 

“ Alas! poor motherless girl!’^ he said, in a melancholy 
tone. 

At this moment Susie entered the room; she came in 
quickly, but stopped with some abruptness as she caught 
sight of both their anxious faces. 

“Something has happened! What is it, papa?” she 
cried, running to him. 

Mr. Grantham, with an agonized glance at Disney, be- 
gan an elaborate explanation which hopelessly confused 
her, and there stopped short, unable to proceed; where- 
upon Disney took up the parable, and told her bluntly in 
so many words the cruel truth. It was the kindest thing 


28 


IN AN EVIL HOUR. 


he could have done, and he was strengthened by the 
thought that after awhile the knowledge, distressing as it 
was, would be a relief to her. It would mean freedom, if 
nothing else. lie spoke quite lucidly — quite to the point. 
He explained to her fully that from this hour the tie that 
bound her to Geoffrey Carden was irrevocably broken, and 
when he had said all this he looked at her rather nervous- 
ly to see how she had taken it. 

Better than he had expected. She had been singularly 
silent all through, not a word had escaped her; and now 
she stood leaning against the table, with her eyes down- 
cast, and her face pale as a lily: she did not tremble, she 
did not faint, she did not even move. Her very lips were 
bloodless, but she showed no sign of violent emotion; even 
as she thus stood, like one turned into stone, the sound of 
a quick firm footstep in the hall outside smote on her ears. 
Then for the first time she raised her head. 

“ That is Geoffrey she said, in a strange subdued 
way. 

It was he. He flung open the door and advanced upon 
them with his head well thrown uji, and a light in his eyes 
that had not been there for many a day. Not until he 
was well into the room, and his glance had fallen on the 
marble face of his wife, did that look of new fresh courage 
forsake him. He came to a standstill then, and looked in- 
quiringly around. 

“ No further, Carden. Not a step further,^’ cried Mr. 
Grantham in a loud voice that yet trembled. “ We know 
everything! I ask you as an honorable man what business 
you have here? Your wife does not dwell in this house. 


IN AN EVIL nOUE. 


29 


Leave it, therefore, and permit my poor cliild to forget, if 
she can, the existence of one who has brought only shame 
to her. 

Carden’s face had changed. All the light died out of 
it, and he leaned heavily against a book-case near. 

“You have heard — you have told her,’’ liQ said, 
hoarsely. 

“ I did — what you ought to have done a month ago,^^ 
replied her father, sternly. 

“ Oh, how had you the heart to do it!^^ cried Carden, 
bitterly. His miserable eyes were fixed on Susie, who 
stood motionless, as one asleep, with blanched lips, and a 
dazed, rigid expression on her childish face. 

“ It was necessary she should know,^^ said Mr. Gran- 
tham, with a troubled air. “ Was such a thing to be con- 
tinued forever? And now your presence here only dis- 
tresses her. Go! Leave us. Eeturn to the woman who 
bears your name. 

“ She is dead,^^ said Carden, simply. His whole soul 
was in his eyes, and they were riveted upon his wife. She 
knew! They had told her! 

As he said this, a tremor ran through her. She stirred, 
and lifted her head, and made an effort as if to speak, but 
it was evidently beyond her. She looked round her in a 
young, bewildered way, and caught Disney’s glance. He 
was so shocked by the look of troubled horror in her lovely 
eyes that he caught her hand, and held it close in both his 
own. 

“ Don’t look like that,” he entreated her. “ Whatever 
has happened, you are free!” 


30 


IN AN EVIL HOUR. 


Tlie words reached Carden, and he started as if shot. 
He stood erect and began to tremble violently. Then all 
at once the hopelessness of it flashed upon him. It was 
quite true. She ivas free. He had no longer any right to 
interfere, even when she stood there before him — hand in 
hand— with— His breath came heavily through his 
parched lips. 

“ Dead!’^ said Mr. Grantham. 

“ Yes,^^ Carden forced himself to answer. “ I saw her 
dead — yesterday. I made sure there should be no mistake 
this time. And yet — after alP’ — with exceeding bitter- 
ness — “ what does it matter whether she be alive or dead? 
A month ago I heard that she was living. It fell upon me 
like a bolt from hell! It crushed from me all life and 
hope. I knew that it meant separation from the only 
thing on earth I loved, and I could not face that. I could 
not tell her.” He made a faint movement toward Mrs. 
Carden. “ In that I wronged her. I confess that — all. 
I was cold to her for those miserable four weeks, unkind, I 
think — there were moments when I believed she misjudged 
me — but how could she know the tortures I was enduring? 
Tortures! Great Heaven!” cried he, with a sudden burst 
of passion, “ what -were they to what I am enduring now? 
If I have sinned, surely my punishment is great!” He 
pointed to where Susie still stood, pale and passive, with 
her cold hand clasped in Disney ^s. “ You were right,” 

he said. “ She is no longer my wife. All is over!” 

His head sunk upon his breast. Yes, all was indeed 
over. There was nothing left. She had never loved him, 
he now knew. That was bad; but to know that she loved 


IN' AN EVIL HOUE. 


31 


another—! Yet there was nothing to he said against it. 
The wildest protest would be of no avail. That man over 
there, holding her hand as though she already belonged to 
him, had told her she was free. And that was the actual 
truth. She would never be anything more to him, Geof- 
frey Carden, forever — whilst to that other she would be all 
in all! 

Oh, the bitterness of it! Just as he thought Fate had 
at last relented and lifted that terrible shadow from his 
life, he found himself plunged in deeper shades; in a 
gloom, than which Death could not be darker. He looked 
old and worn out, as he stood there gazing his last upon 
the pretty little thing into whose hands he had given him- 
self, to do with as she would. How strangely silent she 
was, with her eyes bent upon the carpet. Did she feel? 
Did she know? He could have groaned aloud as he 
watched her. He looked sadly old and crushed, as a man 
might whose last hope was dead. His heart indeed was 
broken ! 

Well! he would go home and jiut an end to it all. Life 
was but a poor thing as he had found it. He thought, not 
wildly, or desperately, but with a curious sense of comfort, 
of a revolver that lay in the right-hand drawer of his writ- 
ing-table. He would put a finish to it so; to the fret and 
disappointment, and weariness of living! 

“ I suppose that is all,^’ he said, gently. There is 
nothing more that need be said just now. You — they — 
will find me at home: I shall make arrangements — ” He 
broke off rather incoherently, and moved toward the door. 
As he reached it a sharp cry rang through the room. It 


32 


m AN EVIL HOUR. 


came from Mrs. Carden. She had flung Disney’s hand 
aside, and now ran to Carden, with a white, startled ex- 
pression on her face as of one roughly awakened. 

“ What are you going to do, Geoffrey?” she cried, in a 
little panting whisper. “ Where are you going? Ho7ne, 
you said, and without me 9 I am not going to stay here by 
myself.” 

Carden turned a livid face to hers. 

“ You don’t understand,” he said. “ You are no 
longer bound to me. You are ixeQ—free. What that — 
that gentleman said just now was quite true; I have no 
longer any claim to you.” 

lie felt as though the words scorched him as they jiassed 
his lips, yet he said them. As for Susie, two brilliant 
spots of color flamed into her cheeks and her eyes grew 
feverishly bright. 

“ AVhy do you speak to me like that?” she said. “ It 
is not like you to be cruel to me. Oh! what horrible 
things they have said to me to-day.” She put her hands 
in a bewildered fashion to her head. “ Geoffrey, don’t go 
without me,” she entreated eagerly, in a low tone. “ If 
you will wait for just one moment, until I get my hat — ” 

“ Try to understand,” said he, “you can not come 
home. We are no longer married. You are at liberty 
now to marry — any one you choose. You are, I tell you, 
freeV’ 

“ I am not. I won’t be free. It isn’t true,” cried she, 
with sudden passion; “ I have married you. I shall never 
marry any one else; and I insid on going home with you. 
Geoffrey! Speah to me!” 


IN' AN" EVIL HOUR. 


33 


Slie held out her hands to him. He made a step toward 
her and caught and crushed them in his own. 

“Do you know what you are saying?"^ he asked, in a 
choked tone. “ If you marry me noiu, again, it will be 
forever. 

“ Oh! I hope so. Did you think I could live without 
your” She hesitated, and gazed at him earnestly. A 
strange new light came into her eyes. Suddenly she burst 
into tears and threw her arms around his neck. “ Oh, 
how I love you!^^ she sobbed. 

In that moment she ceased to be a child; she became a 
woman. Her heart had spoken to her. 

As for Carden, who shall describe the change in him; or 
the glory of hope resuscitated, that illumined his face? 
That touch of age disappeared; he looked now like a new 
man. He could not speak, he could only press convul- 
sively to his heart the little idolized form, now, indeed, en- 
tirely ihs own. He saw nothing but the pretty fair head 
upon his breast — he felt only the tender clinging arms. 
An outside world might exist, he knew nothing of it, his 
world was folded close to him. She was his. His own. 
She loved him and no other. Oh! the wonder of that 
thought. She surrendered all for him. Why, this was 
better than anything of which he had ever dreamed. 

Ho word escaped him, yet thoughts rushed tumultuously 
from his heart. They blended themselves into a raptur- 
ous cry of thankfulness to the Almighty. 

At the other end of the room the two remaining actors 
in the drama were smitten dumb. Disney, who had art- 
istic tendencies and an eye for a good effect, could not help 
2 


34 


IK AK EVIL SOUR. - 


feeling impressed by the scene before him, though consid- 
erably confounded by the turn events had taken. That 
she should love the husband after all! It was a revelation 
to him. Good heavens! who would have suspected it? 
Woman, as a contradiction, became known to him. There 
was, however, a certain pathetic beauty in the unexpected 
denouement that touched him. That old simile about the 
ivy and the oak never seemed better exemplified. And of 
course it was better as it was; and if she was not fair to 
him, why — He was a jihilosophic young man, and he 
shrugged his shoulders with not altogether a bad grace. 
But what an amount of sympathy he had flung to the 
winds! He picked up his hat and stole on tiptoe from the 
room. 

If he had stamped out of it, however, it would have 
been all the same, as Carden would not have heard him. 
He was now stroking the pretty head, and whispering to it 
words of love. He felt as though he were wooing his 
sweetheart for the second time; but how different it was 
to-day! Now it was a woman, loving and beloved, he held 
within his arms. He could feel the throbbing of her heart 
against his own. All would indeed be different now. 
That awful shadow was lifted from him, and he would 
give her such a life as — 

He became aware suddenly that Mr. Grantham was 
speaking to him. The old gentleman’s voice was husky, 
but unfeignedly glad. 

“ Who’d have thought it?” he was saying. “ I was 
all astray, I must confess. But it is the best thing that 
could have happened. It settles everything. There need 


IN AN EVIL HOUK. 


35 


be no expose, no town talk, no scandal. Not a soul need 
know it beyond ourselves. Disney 1 can depend upon, 
and Maitland — you remember Maitland? I was thinking, 
if I got an old friend like that, he w'ould read the words 
over you two again in a hurry and everything could then 
go on Just as it was before. 

He was delighted with his own idea, and ran out of the 
room to see to it forthwith. 

“ Geoffrey, said Mrs. Carden, lifting her head and 
raising a very pale little face to his, “ was it because of 
that — that woman, that you have been so changed all this 
past dreadful month?” 

“ Yes, darling. "Was it not enough to — ” 

“ Only that. And all that time I thought you were 
angry with me about something. That you were disap- 
pointed in me. That you regretted your marriage.” 

“ Eegretted it!” 

“Oh! if you had only told me. ” 

“ How could I tell you? Even now the very memory of . 
it makes me grow cold with horror. And to tell you ! 
To risk the chance of losing you — ” 

“ You wouldnT have lost me,” she said, shaking her 
charming head sturdily. “ I should have gone home, I 
suppose,’’ doubtfully. “But I should have waited and 
waited, and after all, as you see, I should have come back 
to you.” 

“Ah! but how was I to be sure of that? You didnT 
love me then, as — ” 

“ Yes, I did. I'm sure of it. Only I didn't know it. 


36 


IN AN EVIL HOUR.* 


that^s all. Do you know, Geoff — she drew down his 
face to hers and kissed him once again — “ I^m rather glad 
that this has happened. I never, never before felt so 
happy as I feel just now.'’^ She said it very simply, but 
her eyes filled with tears. 

“ Oh! Susie, I wish I weren^t such an old fogy, and — 

“Well, there^s one thing interrupted she sternly; 
“ and as we are about to begin all over again, I may as 
well mention it. I won^t have you call yourself horrid 
names before me I Anything else you like, but that — No !’* 


“NONE SO BLIND—” 


CHAPTEE 1. 

Miss Ffrench, having won her set in a very glorious 
fashion, threw her racket with a little graceful enthusiasm 
into the air, caught it again as gracefully as it descended^ 
and, with a congratulatory word or two to her partner, 
moved with him across the shaven lawn in the direction of 
a shady seat that was hidden somewhere amongst the 
shrubberies. 

“ I suppose there is something in that?’^ said Mrs. 
Travers, a pretty woman of about five-and-thirty, looking 
after her, and flicking her fan delicately in the direction of 
the girPs companion. 

“ Impossible to say,^^ returned Lady Synge, coldly. 
‘‘ I should be the last one in the world to give an opinion 
about her acceptance or refusal of anybody, as I confess I 
donT understand her in the least. ” 

“ Considering that you are her cousin in some sort, and 
that you are not devoid of penetration, and that she lives 
so much with you, that is a remarkable speech. 

“ True, however. As to her staying with me, she does 
that just as she chooses. She is too big an heiress to be 
under any one’s control, and her beauty besides makes one 
a little afraid of her.” 


( 37 ) 


38 


“none so blind — ” 

“ Or for her?^^ 

“Oh, certainly not. I will d« her the justice to say 
that I believe her quite equal to the care of herself. She 
will not mix herself up in any imbroglio, nor will she 
marry beneath her. She has her own interests too much 
at heart for that!^^ 

She spoke bitterly, and the other woman cast a side 
glance at her. 

“ It was an unfortunate thing that that melancholy ac- 
cident put an end to Victor’s chance,” she said. 

“ Had he a chance?” Lady Synge’s face, handsome 
still if middle-aged, clouded perceptibly as Mrs. Travers 
mentioned her nephew’s name. “ A poor baronet with 
only £3000 a yearly Oh, I think not; L give her credit 
for greater prudence. That she trifled with him two sea- 
sons ago in the cruelest manner, I admit; but that he ever 
had a chance of gaining her I do not believe. She is a 
practiced coquette, and of course he was fair game. The 
more desirable in that he had gained a character for cold- 
ness before she met him.” 

“ He was frantically in love with her, at all events.” 

“ Yes; I have no doubt she found him amusing. I 
always tell myself how thoroughly she must have enjoyed 
that victory.” 

“ I think perhaps you wrong her a little,” said her 
friend gravely. “ There is something in her face — her 
eyes, is it? — or her mouth? — that precludes the idea of 
cruelty.” 

“ It isn’t worth an argument,” said Lady Synge, impa- 
tiently. She would have liked to say “ she ” instead of 


NONE SO blind- 


39 


C( 


y y 


it,” but breeding forbade. “ My only regret is that he 
should have met her before this terrible tiling befell him. 
Now, behind his darkened eyes, her face lives fresh in liis 
memory. He can not forget her, and I can not forgive 
her, in that she has added another grief to his already too 
mournful lot. ” 

“ Poor Victor!^' 

‘‘ No! Not poor! Such a word could not apply to 
him,’^ exclaimed Lady Synge, hastily. “ Any one with a 
mind so sweet, a heart so pure as his, could never be called 
poor!^^ 

Then in a breath she contradicted herself. She fold- 
ed her hands tightly in her lap, as with the hope of sup- 
pressing her strong emotion; a heavy sigh fell from her, 
and she murmured to herself in a heart-broken tone, “ My 
poor fellow! My poor, poor boy!^^ 

“ It was the most melancholy thing I ever heard of,^^ 
exclaimed Mrs. Travers, quickly, who was always nervous 
about witnessing emotion in others, being pretty well case- 
hardened herself. “With such a career before him, too! 
His commission flung up, and — 

“ He felt nothing so keenly as his lost chance of win- 
ning that girl,^^ interrupted Lady Synge with some excite- 
ment “ His heart and soul were centered in her — nay, 
are. She is the cause of all his misery. ” 

“ Not all, surely. You are a little hard on Joan. She 
had nothing to do with that miserable accident on the 
hunting-field.^^ 

“ Who shall say she hadn't? Her rejection of him made 
him reckless in many ways. Oh, if she had only accepted 


40 


“none so blind— 

him! But, as I have said, he wasn^t good enough for a 
girl so worldly wise as she is/^ 

“ You would accuse her now of being mercenary; and 
certainly she is not that. She refused to my knowledge 
many good offers since Victor proposed to her. One of 
them the best last year afforded.^' 

“Not mercenary: I do not accuse her of that, but am- 
bitious. She is looking for rank, no doubt. I heard that 
young man who was playing with her just now, Lord 
Dornsford, was very attentive to her last Christmas at the 
Bellais^s, and that she was at least not uncivil to him. Is 
it true.^ You go more into the world than I do; you 
should know. 

“ Yes, I also heard it,^^ said Mrs. Travers, a touch of 
constraint in her tone. 

“ Was that why you brought him here to-day?^’ 

Mrs. Travers flushed, and bit her lips. 

“ Well— perhaps,*^ she said. “And if so, there was 
more kindness than cruelty toward Sir Victor in such an 
act. If Lord Durnsford comes to the point, Joan will cer- 
tainly accept him, as few girls I take it would refuse one 
of the oldest earldoms in England with such a rent-roll 
attached to it as he can offer. That would put an end for- 
ever to any wild hopes Sir Victor still may entertain. 
Surely that will be a good thing for him. ” 

“ You overburden him with your kindness.” 

“You regard it too much from one side only,^^ said 
Mrs. Travers warmly. “ Some thought should be given 
to her. Considering the sad aflliction that has befallen 


NONE SO BLIND—"" 


41 




your nephew, surely it would be better for her to marry 
well than to — "" 

“ She could not do better than marry Victor, blind 
though he be,"" persisted Lady Synge, so obstinately that 
Mrs. Travers, with a wisdom that was hardly to be expect- 
ed of a woman, shrugged her shoulders and withdrew from 
the subject. It was impossible, she told herself, that she 
should agree with Lady Synge. If Joan, who was quite a 
dear friend of hers, had happened to love this poor afflicted 
young man, why, well and good. Love, which is charity, 
covers a multitude of defects; but that she did not love him 
seemed to Mrs. Travers a special interposition of Provi- 
dence, and a very hajipy thing indeed. 

She was still thinking of this when a rustle of soft gar- 
ments just behind her made her turn her head. Joan 
Ffrench was standing at her side, but she was not looking 
at her — her eyes were fixed upon her cousin. Lady 
Synge. 

She was a tall girl, with features that were strictly reg- 
ular; all save the mouth, which was a trifle larger than it 
should be. Her eyes were soft and dark, and she was be- 
yond doubt extremely beautiful; indeed, there were very 
few women who did not sink into insignificance beside her. 
She was thoroughly bred in her appearance, and there was 
something in her expression that gave one the idea that 
she would be perfectly able to judge for herself on even the 
knottiest point, without calling in the aid of her friends. 
But it was the faulty mouth that was her chief charm. 
When she smiled something grew upon it, that rendered 
her soft, sweet, and pliant as the veriest child. 


42 


“none so blind — 

She stooped over Lady Synge^s chair and patted her on 
the shoulder. 

“ Giving me ‘ the bastinado with your tongue/ 
auntie?^’ she asked gayly. She always called her cousin, 
“ Auntie.^’ “ No, do not deny it. A lengthened experi- 
ence has taught me that when your mouth takes that par- 
ticular curve, you are saying naughty things of me.^^ 

“ JVhere is Victor?’^ asked Lady Synge, abruptly, tak- 
ing no heed of the foregoing. Miss Ffrench raised her 
brows. 

“ Is it a foregone conclusion that I should know where 
he is?^’ she said. “ Well,^^ with a change of tone that 
produced her perfect smile, “ as it happens, I do. He is 
in the rose garden, talking to Colonel Ashton of politics, 
dry as that tanned old warrior himself. 

“Ah! he will be tired, bored, worn out,^^ cried Lady 
Synge, rising with her usual impetuosity to her feet. She 
looked at Joan with intense reproach in her eyes, and the 
girl smiled back at her as if amused. 

“ You could at least have prevented that,^^ said Lady 
Synge. 

Miss Ffrench shrugged her shoulders. It was a trick of 
hers, and she did it very charmingly, but she said nothing. 
Lord Durnsford, who was with her, and who saw the 
shrug, smiled discreetly. 

“ By Jove! she evidently expects you to play the keeper to 
Sir Victor, he said in a whisper, as though such expecta- 
tion were one of the greatest jokes extant. “ Bound to 
look after him, eh? and deliver him out of bondage on all 
occasions. A rather absurd notion, eh?’’ 


KONE SO BLIND— 


43 


(e 


fy 


His manner toward Miss Ffrench as a rule was absolutely 
servile, yet just now he found he was unhappy enough to 
have in some unknown way offended her. 

“ Why absurd?^’ she asked, in a tone that froze him, 
and killed the insipid smile upon his lips. She swept him 
with a glance, and then turned abruptly away from him, 
and to Lady Synge. 

“lam off to the rescue,” she said gayly. “I shall 
bring back Sir Victor, I promise you, dead or alive. Wish 
me luck in my hazardous enterprise. Consider how many 
times the colonel has been under fire, and how seldom 1/^ 
Here Mrs. Travers laughed a little satirically. 

“How, then?’’ demanded Miss Ffrench, turning to 
her. 

“ Why, there are fires and fires,” said she, with a com- 
ical glance. “ But,” making an imperceptible gesture 
toward Lady Synge, who was looking anxious as she 
dwelt on her “ poor fellow ” being thus given up to the 
cruel mercies of a doting old Indian officer, “ if you indeed 
mean a rescue, why go. But when you have carried off 
your prey — what then?” There was considerable mean- 
ing in her voice. Miss Ffrench reflected for a moment. 

“That’s the worry of it,” she said. “One seldom 
knows what to do with one’s captive. Well— as you put it 
to me — read to him as usual, I suppose, now that our 
neighbors have kindly made up their minds, at last, to go 
home. What a trial these afternoons are in the country! — 
Wliat! going so soon, dear Lady Primrose? Why, it is 
quite early yet. Ah, well— good-bye! Yes, he likes being 
read to, doesn’t he, auntie?” 


44 


“none so blind— 

“ He likes you to read to him/’^ rejDlied Lady Synge, in 
an uncompromising tone. 

“ Consider it done, then,^^ said her lovely cousin, with 
a sprightly air. She moved away from the group minus 
an attendant, the discomfited earl being too depressed after 
his late snubbing to dare offer himself as an escort. 

Mrs. Travers as she passed her stopped her for a mo- 
ment. 

“ Wiy do you read to him?’’ she asked, with a suspi- 
cion of censure in her manner. 

“Ah! That is just what Iso much wish I knew my- 
self,” responded she, with a careless laugh. 

Here two figures emerging from the laurestine on their 
left caught and held all their attention. One was a tall 
young man of about twenty-nine. He walked somewhat 
deliberately, and leaned as he went on his companion’s 
arm. He was singularly handsome, if rather emaciated in 
appearance, and his eyes, wide open, were large and dark. 
They seldom moved, however, and one might remark that 
their lids did not cover and uncover them with the nervous 
frequency of those who see. Otherwise one could hardly 
imagine him sightless; yet, alas! dark as were those beau- 
tiful eyes, their vision was darker still. 

He was putting in a word here and there in his compan- 
ion’s voluble flow of political platitudes, but he was evi- 
dently without interest in the subject under discussion. 
His attention seemed indeed a trifle strained, as though he 
were listening intently for some sound or thing that lay 
well outside the colonel’s prosy talk, and that might come 


45 


“none so blind—” 

to him at any moment. There was upon his face that sad 
look of expectancy that characterizes the newly blind. 

Miss Ffrench went up to him and touched his arm. He 
started violently, and on the instant his whole expression 
changed. The melancholy forsook it, a smile radiant as 
heiiown lit his whole face. It touched whatever heart she 
had, or permitted herself to have, and with a view to over- 
coming her own emotion (which annoyed her) she jiut on 
her liveliest air. 

“ They have all gone, Victor,” she said. “ Such a pity, 
eh? If they could have fully sounded the depth of our 
grief at their departure, I doubt not all the^e dear neigh- 
bors of ours would have gone a little sooner.’^ 

“You are smiling,” said the blind man, softly. “I 
can know that, at least. After all, I have some small 
mercies left me. I know how you look when you smile.” 

She frowned slightly, as if hurt; but this happily was 
unknown to him. In a moment she had recovered herself. 

“ Auntie is miserable about 3’-ou,” she said lightly. The 
old colonel had beaten an early retreat. “ And you know 
of old when she is miserable about you, she consoles her- 
self by abusing me. Come, then, let me read to you, and 
save me from her wrath.” 

“Ah! WillyoaV' He spoke eagerly, but almost im- 
mediately checked himself. “ You are very good,” he 
said — “ too good to a poor fellow like me, but I must not 
accept your offer. With so many guests in the house — to 
give so much time to me — it is out of the question.” 
Then suddenly he put out his hand and touched her. He 
could not see; but as it happened it was her arm, just be- 


46 


NON-E SO BLIND—- 


C( 




low the elbow, that he caught. She had drawn off her 
long gloves to play that last set, and the pretty soft 
rounded arm was bare. His fingers crept round it ten- 
derly, and a swift fiush rose to his cheek. “No! do not 
take m6 at my word,^’ he said, hurriedly. “ I ca7i 7iot re- 
sign this pleasure you would give me. ” 

Miss Ffrench patted the hand resting on her arm, in the 
airiest fashion, and then as airily displaced it from its de- 
sirable position. 

“ Pouf,^^ she said, “ to be too punctilious is to lose the 
salt of life. I feel I have done my duty by auntie’s guests 
for 07ie day. Come, give me my reward. I am tired, and 
to sit in a shady room and read aloud a favorite poem or 
two will rest me. To read to you especially, as you are 
ever an appreciative audience. ” 

This, coming from another woman, might savor of en- 
couragement; but Miss Ffrench was clever, and contrived 
to insert into her tone a touch of absolute indifference that 
utterly destroyed tho sweetness of the words. He sighed 
involuntarily, and followed her in-doors to a cozy little 
room, half library, half boudoir, where he sunk with a 
rather exhausted air upon a lounge. 

She looked at him sharply. ^ 

“ You don’t grow stronger,” she said. 

“ Oh! I hope not,” he returned wearily. 

“ What an absurd answer!” She spoke angrily, and 
threw the book she held upon the table near her, with 
rather unnecessary violence. “ Your affliction is of course 
great, but you are not the only one; others have endured 
it. Surely your strength is as'good as theirs.” 


47 


“none so ulind — ” 

“ As good — so far. But to be blind is not the worst 
thing that can befall a man. ” 

It was impossible that she should misunderstand him. 

“ From you/' she said, growing extremely pale, “ such 
a speech as that is cruder than it could ever be from an- 
other. Considering all that has come and gone between 
us, you might have s^jared me that. " 

“ Considering all — you speak of — you might have judged 
me more justly. Could I think one unkind thought of 
your And do you believe I have not measured the gulf 
that now divides us? In my best days I was nothing to 
you, and now — " 

“ Yes, yes. I was hasty. I wronged you," said she 
hurriedly. 

“ You are an angel to bear with the whims and fancies 
of a poor wretch like me. " Then he held out his hand to 
where he might reasonably suppose she was sitting. 
“ Give me your hand," he said. “That sweet pledge I 
once strove to win from you, to have and to hold forever, 
you will surely not refuse to lend me now, in this my evil- 
est hour." 

She pushed back her chair and rose abruptly. 

“ No, no," she said. “ Think me cruel, unfeeling if 
you will, but believe me it is for the best." 

“As you will," he said, gently. “And now for this 
reatling you have promised. " 

Miss Ffrench, who was in spite of herself disturbed, re- 
garded him intently for awhile, then turned abruptly 
aside, and, happy in the mournful knowledge that he 
could not see her, she pressed her hand convulsively against 


48 


NONE SO BLIND — ' 


(6 




her eyes. If by this means she pressed back any unwel- 
come tears, was known only to herself. When she spoke 
there was not the faintest trace of emotion in her clear 
fresh voice. 

“ Well, what shall it be?^' she said. “ What have we 
here?” She took up a book at raudom from the table. 
“ Swinburne, eh? He is the least little bit too sentimental 
for me, I confess; but 1^11 try something. The first thing 
I open at — 

She gave a careless glance at the page before her, and 
began — 


“ ‘ Let us go hence, my songs: she will not hear. 

Let us go hence together without fear; 

Keep silence now, for singing-time is over. 

And over all old things and all things dear. 

She loves not you nor me as all we love her. 

Yet, though we sung as angels in her ear. 

She would not hear. 

“ ‘ Let us go hence, go hence: she will not see. 

Sing all once more together; surely she, 

• She too, remembering days and words that were. 

Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we. 

We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been 
there. 

Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me. 

She would not see.’ 

“ What folly it all is!” she cried, irritably, flinging the 
book aside. “ Why not have something more wholesome 
than that, if you must have poetry? Pshaw! to think of 


NONE SO BLIND — ' 


49 




)> 


any man, calling himself a man, wasting so much breath 
over a creature devoid of feeling/^ 

He was silent. 

“ Why do you not speak?’’ she cried angrily. “ Per- 
haps you think my censure falls upon myself. Am I such 
a creature? Have I no feeling?” 

“ You have more than most, I think. That is why I 
love you.” He spoke quite calmly, and as though it were 
a very ordinary thought with him. “ And as for that 
other of whom you have been reading, who shall say that 
she felt for no one? To that one man iierhaps she was 
dead; but to another — Joan ” — his tone grew low and 
eager — “ tell me one thing. Are you %oing to marry 
Hurnsford? A whisper — a suspicion of it has been con- 
veyed to me.” 

A very unstable whisper.” 

“You deny it, then?” His breath came quickly; he 
leaned toward her, a very world of hope in his sightless 
face. It crushed her. ShO rose and drew back a step or 
two, laying her hand upon a chair near her as if to steady 
herself. 

“ There is no need for denial,” she said. “ Lord 
Hurnsford has not done me the honor to ask me — yet!” 

She did great violence to her feelings when she spoke 
that “>yet,” but she felt it her duty to do it. To deceive 
him, even in so legitimate a matter, was more than she 
could compass. Contrary to her expectations and her 
fears, however, he took it very calmly. 

“ I see— T quite understand,” he said. “ I have probed 
you as I should not have done, and you have borne with 


50 


“none so blind — 

me as I believe no other woman could. And — do not feel 
sorrow for me, Joan. That I love you is my one undying 
joy. Now go on with our reading, and choose this time 
something a little less sad. Forget this folly of mine — for- 
get all, save, though I am always helpless, I am still your 
cousin and your friend. 


CHAPTER II. 

In the reception-rooms outside, where the people were 
moving to and fro, or standing in little groups to criticise 
the music, the lights were brilliant; but in this small 
flower-filled room the lamps burned low, shedding a soft 
rich crimson flood of radiance on the low divans and 
gleaming statuettes. The breath of dying roses filled the 
apartment; the last exquisite tones of a celebrated singer 
had ceased upon the air. There was absolute silence, save 
for the impassioned accents of a man who, leaning against 
a marble pillar, was gazing down eagerly upon the girl be- 
neath. It was Lord Durnsford. 

Miss Ffrench lay back in a fauteuil. She was looking 
indescribably lovely, but with a face as white as her gown. 
The latter was of ivory satin, unrelieved by color of any 
sort, if one excepted the tiny sparks of many colors that 
flashed from the diamond band that encircled hei; neck, 
and from the diamond star that lay half hidden in her 
hair. Of any other ornaments she was guiltless. Her 
eyes were lowered, and she held upon her knee a large 
white fan, round which her fingers had closed with rather 
unwonted force. 


NONE SO blind- 


51 


C( 




Lord Durnsford was speaking in an eager, disconnected 
fashion. 

“ It is hardly necessary to say it — is it? You must have 
known — have seen — for so long. To say now that I love 
you, seems to say — so little. Joan! — you are listening. 
You do not forbid me to go on!” 

He waited a moment, during which her lips grew whiter, 
and her fingers closed even more tightly on the luckless 
fan. It broke. 

“ Why should I forbid you?^^ she said at last, coldly, 
but very distinctly. 

The light of triumph shot into his eyes. 

“ Do you know what that means? You accept me, then 
— at last ’ 

He put out his hand to take hers, but with a little stifled 
exclamation she rose to her feet, and going quickly to the 
open window, flung back the silken curtain and let the 
moonlight’ stream into the room. As she stood there, 
leaning rather heavily against the frame-work, he could see 
that her face was white as death. 

“ What is it? You are faint?^^ he exclaimed, anx- 
iously. 

‘‘ No — no, indeed; it is nothing. But that room inside 
— it was suffocating. 

She looked at him as she spoke, and compelled a shadow 
of a smile to her lips. 

“ You are sure you are well?^' 

Quite well.^' 

“ Give me my answer, then,” he entreated. “ Joan, you 
will marry me?” . 


52 


NONE SO BLIND — ' 




99 


She hesitated — even then. It was, however, a very mo- 
mentary hesitation; one little word and she would be a 
countess — the richest in England; and yet — and yet — the 
little word was said nevertheless. 

“ Yes,^^ she answered, in a low tone. 

He 2nit out his arm as if to draw her to him, but she 
shrunk away and turned her face to the deserted room 
within, as if seeking for escape. In her large brilliant eyes 
there was a curious hunted expression. 

At this moment, as though in answer to her secret de- 
sire, two people strolled into the room, talking briskly. 

*‘Ah! — Captain Greville I"' cried Miss Ffrench, in her 
soft trainante voice. She went up to him with a certain 
empressenmit that made Greville’s heart (who had loved 
her from afar many a month) beat with unpleasant haste. 
“ You, too, then, have discovered this coziest nook in all 
the world. See, Lord Durnsford and I have let the moon- 
light in upon it — one more charm added, we thought; 
eh?’^ 

A little excitable laugh broke from her. She swept 
past him without waiting for an answer, to the open door- 
way that led into the reception-room beyond. Lord Durns- 
ford accompanying her. 

“ I shall go home,^^ she said, gently. “ Do you think 
you can take me to Mrs. Travers? I feel very tired. 

“ You are too pale, indeed. To-morrow, then. May I 
call?” 

“ To-morrow? Yes. But until then ” — she regarded 
him earnestly — “ you will give me your word to mention 
nothing of what has jiassed between us to-night?’^ 


NONE SO BLIND—- 


53 


iC 




“ Certainly/’ replied he, gravely. 

She found Mrs. Travers presently and induced her to 
leave, although the night was still young. She was so 
pale, so silent on the way home, that Mrs. Travers, who 
was a born diplomatist, guessed how matters stood at once, 
and had it all out of her in less than seven minutes. 

“ You lucky girl!” she cried; “ to land the event of the 
season. My congratulations come from my heart. Bless 
me! — won’t Bella feel anyhow when she hears of it! You 
will be the envy of hundreds, let me tell you — a fact suffi- 
cient in itself to make any well-regulated girl happy for 
life.” 

“ Well, I can’t say I feel specially happy,” said Joan, in 
a rather depressed tone. 

“More shame for you then,” returned Her sprightly 
friend, who indeed had small patience with such ingrati- 
tude toward a kindly fate. “ Now I do hope you are not 
going to be silly about want of love, etc. All that sort of 
nonsense is exploded long ago. And a good thing, too! 
When you have been married to him for six months you 
will adore him — because he loves you. I know all about 
it. I’ve seen dozens of girls married who hadn’t a spark 
of affection for their husbands, and they’d be awfully mad 
if you told them so now. And Durnsford is specially un- 
objectionable. Very desirable indeed in many little ways. 

I expect you will have a real good time with him; a better 
time than most. Oh! if I had only had your chance, how 
I should have jumped with joy!” 

“ Is that entirely true? Would you give up Harry to be 
Lady Durnsford?” 


54 


“none so blind— 

Mrs. Travers laughed. 

“Oh! — Harry!’* she said. “Harry is such a fool! 
And besides, you trench on delicate ground, my good child. 
Would you have me give him up noiu, after all these years 
of married bliss! Think what the world would say.^^ 

“Oh! you know what I mean. No, you loved Harry. 
You may call him a fool, but you donT mean it. And 
even so, as it seems to me, it would be better to marry a 
fool than any other man, provided you loved him. 

“ You are younger than you look,^^ said Mrs. Travers, 
with fine contempt. 

Here they arrived at the house in Park Lane, so that 
perforce the discussion came to an end, never, as it hap- 
pened, to be renewed. On a salver in the hall they found 
some letters awaiting them that had come by the latest 
post, and takiog them up, they went into the morning- 
room with them, which was well-lighted. 

The handwriting being unknown to her, Miss Ffrench 
opened the first of hers lazily; she scanned its contents, 
and suddenly a low but terrible cry broke from her. Mrs. 
Travers, looking up hurriedly, was a good deal frightened 
by her expression. She stood at the table, white and 
shivering. 

“ He is dying!” she cried, sharply. 

“ Dying! — Who? Durnsford?^’ asked Mrs. Travers, 
aghast, whose mind just then ran upon one man only. 

“Oh, no; no, no! Would to Heaven it were! But 
Victor — Victor!” She sunk into a chair, and letting her 
arms fall prone upon the table, buried her face on them. 


55 


“none so blind — 

“ See!^^ she said, pushing the letter toward her friend 
M'ithout looking up. 

Mrs. Travers took it. The writing was altogether un- 
like the clear caligrajdiy on the envelope. It was indeed 
wild and straggling — the writing of one not only blind, but 
past all strength. There was a tragical look about it that 
frightened her, and with that and the irregularities of the 
hand it took her quite a minute to read it through. It ran 
as follows . 

“ After all it was of no use. They tell me I have not 
many hours to live. But I could not go from you forever, 
my love, my darling, without one word. They tell me 
you are going to marry him. It is this, then; That I 
pray God to bless you every hour of your life. But — in all 
the happy years that lie before you, do not quite forget 
me. ViCTOK. ” 

“What a fiasco!” was Mrs. Travers’s first thought. 
Her second — how to successfully manage the affair. She 
therefore read the note over again, with a view to giving 
herself time. 

“ Oh, it can’t be altogether so bad,” she said, hardly 
knowing what to say. “He is very incoherent, and 
j)robably thinks himself weaker than he is.” She glanced 
again at the letter — “ ‘ After all it was of no use .’ — What 
was of no use, I wonder? Poor fellow! He was a little 
off his head, no doubt, and imagined himself worse than 
usual. ” 

Her voice roused Joan. She stood up, and raising both 


56 


“none so 15LIND — 

arms, pushed back the hair from her forehead. Her face 
was ghastly, and her eyes shone like stars. She looked 
terrible with her miserable face and her gay attire — the 
rich ivory satin and the gleaming diamonds. 

“ But one thing could make it worse,^^ she said. “ No, 
there is no doubt. He is dying. Hying — and alone!’* 
She caught her breath quickly. “ You know auntie is laid 
up in that house in Cheshire. There is no one with him. 
Oh! to be dying, without a friend near. It is horrible — 
horrible ' 

She began to pace up and down the room in a wild, ex- 
citable way, but presently came to a standstill before Mrs. 
Travers. 

“ I shall go to him,^' she said, abruptly. 

“ Joan! — impossible !’' 

“ Why is it impossible? It shall not be so.^^ 

“ For one thing because, as you have just said, he is 
alone. Your going would compromise you. Think what 
the world would say. Think of Lord Durnsford.^^ 

“ I can think only of Victor. Nothing shall prevent 
my going to him — nothing, nothing!’^ She tore off her 
long white gloves and threw them on the table. “ When 
does the next train go?"” she asked, feverishly. 

“ If you take this step you will imperil your reputa- 
tion,^^ cried Mrs. Travers, angrily. “ One can’t do odd 
things of this kind without being talked about. And you 
— who are so proud — how will you like that?” 

“ If to go to a dying cousin is to imperil one’s reputa- 
tion—” 


KONE SO BLIND— 


57 


“ To go to a dying lover, rather. All the world knew 
of his infatuation.^^ 

“ If the fact of his having loved me will militate against 
me, so be it then. Oh, how he did love me!’^ she cried, 
with a burst of anguish. 

“ And your engagement to Lord Dumsford?^^ 

“ That is all over now. I shall never marry him — I 
shall never marry any one. She had again been walking 
up and down, as though to be quiet was impossible to her, 
and now again she stopped. “ Listen to me,^^ she said. 
“ I may as well tell you all now. I — clasping her 
hands and lifting her beautiful, haggard face — “ for two 
long years I fought against it; I tvould not believe it! I 
sivore to myself that it was not so — but now — wow, I know. 
I lied to myself. That letter — crumpling it up feverish- 
ly in her hot, slender fingers — “ has taught me that I love 
him, as I never have, as I never can love another!’^ 

“Joan! — I think, said Mrs. Travers, coldly, “ that, 
considering all that has happened this evening, it is a little 
too late to — 

The girl threw out her hands wildly. 

“ Oh, those terrible words! Oh, no! it can not be too 
late,^^ she cried, .catching the sound, not the spirit, of her 
companion’s speech. “ Oh, Claudia, if you ever loved me, 
help me now!” She glanced at the clock. “ It is already 
two,” she said. “ When does the next train go?” 

“ There is one at six, I believe,” replied Mrs. Travers, 
sulkily. 

“ Not before that — not until four long hours have gone? 
Think, dear Claudia, think! There must be a train, even 


58 “noke so blind — ” 

an hour, one hour earlier. Where is your book, your 
guide? Dear Heaven! how much can happen in four 
hours 1^^ 

‘‘Do you know that you are extremely selfish?” cried 
Mrs. Travers, the more wrathfully in that she felt she was 
going to give in. “ You look only on one side of the ques- 
tion. You do not consider Durnsford; and as for me — 
how am I to account to Lady Synge for this mad freak of 
yours?” 

“ You are right. I am selfish,^^ said the girl, 
wretchedly. She looked round her in a vague, hopeless 
way, and then suddenly burst into a passion of tears. 

Of course when she saw her crying, Mrs. Travers for- 
gave her. She went to her and put her arms round her. 

“ See, now,” she said; “ to be able to write at all, proves 
that he canT be so very bad. Come upstairs with me and 
let me help you to change your dress. I dare say we shall 
find plenty to do before we start.” 

“ We?” 

“ Of course I shall go with you,” said Mrs. Travers, 
virtuously. “ Do you imagine I should let you undertake 
a questionable affair of this kind without a chaperon?” 


CHAPTER HI. 

They got there about eight o’clock the same morning. 
As they mounted the steps of Sir Victor’s house Mrs. 
Travers cast a hurried look at Joan, and seeing that she 
was quite incapable of taking the initiative in any way, that 


59 


“none so blind — 

she was indeed on the point of fainting, went quickly for- 
ward as a servant opened the door. Her own heart began 
to beat wildly as she considered that this man might have 
the word “ death ” upon his lips. 

“ How is Sir Victor?’^ faltered Mrs. Travers at last. 

“ Well, m’ — no worse, thank God,^^ said the man, 
earnestly. Joan burst into tears. The servant stepped 
aside as a tall, lean, elderly gentleman came down the 
hall, whom Mrs. Travers recognized as the celebrated phy- 
sician Sir Sampson Baker. She went eagerly up to him, 
whilst Joan, overcome, sunk upon one of the hall chairs. 

“ Is there hope?’^ cried Mrs. Travers, clasping the doc- 
tor's hand. 

“ Why, yes, my dear madame. Even I will venture to 
say a strong hope. He has got through the night admirably. 
Better even than I exj^ected. You have come to stay, eh? 
Quite right: quite right. Some one to cheer him is what 
he will want from this out. His sister?’^ — casting a sharp 
glance at Joan. 

“ His cousins,^’ said Mrs. Travers, with quite a long 
stress on the plural. She took this new relationship upon 
her in the easiest manner possible. “ You see. Lady 
Synge being ill in Cheshire and unable to move, she was 
naturally anxious that we should come down and supply 
her place as well as we could. 

“ Yes, yes. It was a very unfortunate thing, her being 
invalided just now, as Sir Victor’s eyes being in a fit state 
for the operation, we were quite afraid to let it go any 
further.” 

“ His eyes? Is there hope of recovery there? Was 


60 


“none so blind — 

there an operation?^’ exclaimed Mrs. Travers, in astonish- 
ment. 

“ Dear me! I fancied you knew. Why, yes. And a 
very successful operation, I trust, now his strength is re- 
turning; but I warn you it is quite a touch and go matter, 
as yet. We must be cautious, you see— extremely cau- 
tious. 

“ To think we should not have heard 1^' 

“ He kept it entirely secret, poor fellow, lest it should 
prove a failure. He was very nervous about it. Lady 
Synge alone knew, and I thought she might have told 
you. Not that I had the least idea until now that you 
were a cousin of his. ” 

“ Could we— I — see him?^' asked Mrs. Travers, turning 
the subject adroitly. 

“ Well — really — he has had such an excellent night. 
What do you say, nurse?^’ asked Sir Sampson, addressing 
a tall, pale young woman who now appeared in the back- 
ground. He whispered a few words to her. She then in- 
quired tlie names of the two ladies, and having withdrawn, 
presently returned again. 

“ If you will come this way, madame,’^ she said, ad- 
dressing Mrs. Travers, “you can see him. I have pre- 
pared him in a measure, but he seemed a little unnerved. 

I mentioned your names, and I would earnestly enjoin 
quiet on you.’^ 

“You hear, Joanr^^ said Mrs. Travers. She pushed 
the girl forward. “ Go,^^ she said. 

The nurse and doctor looked both a little surprised. 


61 


“noke so blind — 

The former, noting the 2 )allor that distinguished Miss 
Ffrench^s face, said gently: 

“ The one thing we have principally to guard against is 
excitement. You will remember that?^^ 

“ I shall remember,’^ said Joan. 

The nurse stopped and threw open a door with the 
softest touch possible. After that she stepped back into 
the corridor, and Joan entered the room alone. The light 
in it was very subdued, all the curtains being drawn, and 
for a moment she felt bewildered. Then she looked round 
her fearfully. 

He was lying on his side, and there was a delicate white 
bandage across his eyes. When she saw him all fear died 
from her, and she crossed the room with a swift, light 
stejj, and took the hand that was lying on the counterpane 
and 23ressed it to her bosom. 

“ Victor,^ ^ she whispered, tremulously. She felt his 
hand vibrate within her own. 

“ It is true, then,’^ he said. “ You have come.^^ He 
spoke in a tone so low, so feeble, that she had to stoop over 
him to hear. “ I never expected that. But there is no 
one like you.^^ 

“ When I got your letter, she said, “ I felt that I 
could not stay away. 

‘‘ 1 should apologize to you for that — only I canT. It 
is so good to know you are here. I brought you under 
false pretenses, I am afraid. You have heard what they 
say nowr^^ 

“Yes— yes. Thank God. 

“ And that I may get back my sight?’^ 


62 


“none so blind — 

“ That you certai/nly will get it back. Yes, I have 
heard all. But you must be careful. You must not talk.^^ 
She started up as if frightened. 

“ Oh, don’t go,” he entreated eagerly. He clung to her 
hand. “ For the little time you will be here, don’t leave 
me.” Then, anxiously, “ How long can you stay?” 

Miss Ffrench, without removing her hand from his, 
pulled a chair toward her and sat down. 

“Mrs. Travers came with me,” she said. “And,” 
smiling, “ we thought, if you would invite us, that we 
would stay a day or two to make sure that all was well 
with you.” 

She waited for a rej)ly, but none came. He pressed her 
hand feebly, and a sigh broke from him. 

“ I am too happy,” he whispered at last. Then, after 
a bit: “ You think that a strange speech from me to you, 
after — But I have learned to reconcile myself to many 
things. ” The shade that fell upon his face as he said this 
did not however agree with his words. “ You have made 
up your mind about Durnsford?” he said. 

She hesitated, and grew confused. 

“ Yes,” she said, nervously. 

He sighed. 

“ When do you marry him?” 

“ Oh — never !” she cried, impetuously. 

“Never! How is that?” He started violently, and 
she felt the fingers clasped round hers tighten their grasp. 

' “ Speak!” he said. 

Still she hesitated; then went on hurriedly, in a pretty, 
shame-faced fashion; 


63 


“koke so blind — 

“ Last night he proposed to me, and I accepted him. 
Then I went home and found your letter. I/’ with a 
swift blush, “ knew then that I should never marry him — 
7iever !” 

She rose quickly as she made an end of this confession, 
and tried to release her hand from his. Gently, however; 
she could not try very hard, he was so weak. 

“ Joan, sit down again; don^t go?’^ he entreated. 

“ But indeed I must, for your own good. The nurse 
will be angry with me. Specially, she said, you were to 
beware of all excitement, and now there is quite a flush 
upon your face; you are not half so pale as when I first 
came in. ’’ 

“ That shows what good you have done me.” And in- 
deed his voice was wonderfully stronger. “ Besides, you do 
not excite me,” he went on, fondly — “ you give me rather 
rest and peace, and content. Ah! there is nothing like 
hope for medicine.^’ 

“ What is your hope now?” asked she, with a little 
laugh. 

“ To get well and strong, and marry you.” 

“ You have arranged it all your own way, certainly.” 

“ But my way is your way now, isn’t it?” whispered he, 
rather anxiously. 

Perhaps she was afraid of that excitement she made 
mention of awhile ago, because she surrendered without 
another struggle. 

“ I suppose so!” she said, very gently. 

He made an attempt to draw her to him. She blushed 


64 


KONE SO BLIND—' 


6i 


again — an exquisite carmine this time— but she obeyed the 
weak command and stooped over him, and kissed him. 

“ My beloved murmured he. 

♦ * * 4e * * Ne 

When some time had gone by she said — 

“ I hope auntie will be satisfied now; and will take me 
back into her good graces. I have had a very bad time of 
it with her since — 

“Goon. I can bear it MOW. Since — you refused me!^^ 

“ I think I shall run down to Cheshire and tell her all 
about it. 

“Oh, no; donHl Something tells me I shall get ill 
again directly you go. You can write it, can^t you? She 
is ever so much better, and good news of this kind is just 
the thing to pull her round at once. And such good 
news. He ceased, as if too happy to go on; and then 
— “ I wish I could see you,’' he said. “ Oh! the joy of 
thinking I shall — soon, after two interminable years. Are 
you changed^ darling?” 

“ I don’t know. Not very much, I suppose.” 

“ What are you wearing? What color, I mean?” 

“I don’t know that either,” said she, laughing. “It 
is one of those queer faded shades that every one raves 
^ about. It is^ neither white, nor blue, nor green. If you 
like,” said she, shyly, “ I will put it away, and keep it to 
show you when your eyes are well again, that you may 
know just how I looked to-day. But indeed I have 
prettier gowns; and if I had known that you — But I was 
in such a hurry, and — so unhappy. ” Her voice broke a 
little. 


NONE SO BLIND—' 


65 


SC 


yy 


At this moment the nurse came in. 

“ I think, madame — ’’ she began, gently. 

“ Oh, yes! — and so do I!” cried Miss Ffrench, rising 
nervously. “ I only I haven^t stayed too long — that 
I haven’t done him any harm. ” 

“ I think not,” said the kind nurse, with a little sym- 
pathetic smile, after she had had one good glance at the 
invalid. 

« 4: 4c « « « 4c 

He grew quite strong after awhile, and got back his sight 
too, and they w’ere married, and were — nay, are — as hap- 
py as any two people who ever lived on earth. 

He is always a little 2)roud of the fact that she had made 
up her mind to marry him, even before she knew it was 
possible that his sight might be restored. 

Sometimes he still talks of it to her. 

“ Do you know,” he said to her the other day, about a 
month after the son was born, “ I think it was the very 
pluckiest thing of you! Women will do a good deal, I 
know; but to marry a blind man — ” 

“ You were never so- blind as I was,” interrupted she, 
fondly. “ Just imagine, that I never saw then that I was 
in love with you! ‘ None so blind,’ you know, ‘ as those 
who wonH see!’ ” 


3 


ON TRIAL. 


She was one of those girls who are perhaps more attract- 
ive than strictly pretty, because certainly her features had 
their faults. Her skin, however, was like satin — creamy, 
delicious, with a soft flush running through it; and over 
her low, broad brow her*chestnut hair fell in a soft natural 
wave. No maid had ever cut it; it was in fact “ born 
so,’^ and it blew from side to side as the wind listed, and 
was touched with gold here and there, and had indeed a 
good deal to do with her many conquests. 

Her first season had pronounced her an undeniable suc- 
cess; which meant that to her brother. Lord Hartley, she 
became at once a decided anxiety. She was never now 
without one, or rather two, young men dangling after her 
wherever she went, not only to balls and “ at homes in 
town, but to the Tyrol or the Highlands afterward, and 
wherever the Hartleys might chance to go. It was indeed 
Lady Hartley’s private opinion that had they elected to go 
to Hudson’s Bay for the winter there these young men 
would have appeared up to time, and ready as ever to fall 
down and worship her sister-in-law. 

And they weren’t always the same two young men 
either; that added to the grievance. Miss Charteris had 
many little ways, but the cleverest of all was the little way 

( 66 ) 


ON TBIAL. 


67 


ill which she used to get rid of a suitor when he grew im- 
portunate. This cleverness was hardly appreciated by 
Lady Hartley, upon whom fell, as a rule, the task of con- 
soling and' smoothing down the discarded one. She was 
thus compelled to think a good deal about So23hy, off and 
on, and just now she was particularly anxious about her, 
because she feared she was going to decline the best match 
of the year. Lady Hartley was young herself, and was not 
without sympathy and affection for her sister-in-law, but 
she certainly thought her very foolish; and she didn^t in 
the least know how ’to manage her. She was a very nice 
woman, if a trifle plaintive, and given to looking at the 
unwearable side of things. She was a good woman too, 
intensely devoted to her nursery, as a good woman should 
be, but she was, perhaps, a trifle dull. 

Just now she was worrying over two things; the baby’s 
teetliing, which exercised her mind quite as much as though 
she had not seen three other babies get through the same 
obnoxious process, and her fear that Sophy would at the 
last refuse Lord Elston’s hand — and very handsome rent- 
roll. She was divided between these two anxieties, when 
the door opened and Sophy herself entered the room. 

“Anything the matter, Molly?” asked she, after a 
cursory glance at Lady Hartley’s inexpressive features. 
The latter had been christened a decorous Mary by an 
archbishop, but Miss Oharteris insisted on calling her 
Molly, which of course was a trial. She came across the 
room now with her usual light, swift step, and leaned over 
the back of Lady Hartley’s chair. 

“Are the children all right?” she asked. “Baby’s 


68 


ON TRIAL. 


tooth through yet? You look as if some one had given 
you a severe scolding. 

“ I have many things to worry me,^^ said Lady Hartley, 
with a sigh. “ And, of course, I can not help feeling 
anxious about baby.’^ 

“That big, fat baby !^’ said Miss Charteris, laughing. 
“ Dear Molly, how silly! It is merely his teething — I hope 
— that induces him to give way to those wild fits of diabol- 
ical temper. 

“ Oh, no! He is not ill-tempered. He has the temper 
of a very angel,^^ interrupted the mother, reproachfully. 
“It is all, I am convinced, the fault of that coral his 
grandmother sent him.” 

“ Then why let him have it? Why not get him a 
proper ring? Edith never has any others. A thick, soft 
india-rubber ring. It is not pretty, but babies like it, 
which, of course, is everything. ” 

“ And how am I to get one in this out-of-the-way 
place?” returned Lady Hartley, helplessly. 

“ ITl write to George. He is coming down for these 
theatricals, you know, the day after to-morrow, and he 
shall bring it.” 

“ George!” Lady Hartley repeated, regarding her anx- 
iously. “ Do you mean to tell me you write to George?” 

“ Now and then.” 

“ After all that passed between you last spring? Do 
you think Lord Elston would like it, if he heard of it?” 

“ I don't know, so I can't say.” 

“ Sophy!” said Lady Hartley, in a solemn tone, “ I do 


ON TRIAL. 


69 


hope you are not going to do anything foolish with regard 
to Elston 

“I hope not, indeed,^ ^ said Miss Charteris, with a 
solemnity that put her sister^s in the shade, but she rather 
spoiled it by laughing afterward. 

“It is distinctly wrong of you to ‘encourage George. 
And you must know,^^ waxing a little warm, “ that even 
one line from you in his present frame of mind will be 
sufficient to waken all the old regret. Now, Sophy, tell 
me one thing, do you or do you not like Lord Elston?^ ^ 

Miss Charteris employed herself for a moment or two in 
looking deeply into the fire. Then she said, with the most 
indifferent air in the world: 

“ Tm not sure.'’^ 

“That terrible sentence cried Lady Hartley, im- 
patiently; “ I^m tired of it. Invent another, I beseech 
you. No, donT stand there. Come round here where I 
can see you. Do you know that chronic state of yours of 
not being sure is causing you to be rather too freely dis- 
cussed by your friends? And for a girl to be talked about 
— that, you will admit, is undesirable. And you know, 
too, that when people once begin to talk they never know 
where to stop.’^ 

“I do, indeed,^-’ returned Miss Charteris, with a com- 
ical glance at her. 

“You mean that for me, of course. But I donT mind. 

I shall do my duty, whatever comes of it. And now, 
what fault do you see in Lord Elston?” 

“ He is too rich and too jealous. 

“ His jealousy proves his love. And if riches stand in 


7C 


ON TKIAL. 


his way, why, it is the first time I ever knew them re- 
garded as an objection. And you should be the last to say 
that. You know you said last year you refused George 
because he was too poor.^’ 

“ That only shows how I hate extremes. George is too 
poor; Lord Elston too rich.^’ 

“ Nonsense. I begin to think you have still a secret 
kindness for George. 

“ I hope you are wrong. As, in spite of the passion you 
think he still entertains for me, I hear he has fallen a vic- 
tim to the hemix yeaux of that youngest Miss Wolverton. 
Ah! Molly, I fear my swains are not so faithful as yours 
were.^^ 

“ I trust that what you tell me is true. If, indeed, you 
do not think of George, why can’t you make up your mind 
to Elston?” 

“ I have told you. Never mind what I said about his 
money — if you will have my real reason — it is his jealous 
disposition that I dread. How could I expect happiness 
with a man who suspects me of — of all sorts of things the 
moment I am out of his sight?” 

“ Of flirting with other men, you mean. You can not 
deny, Sophy, that you have given him cause.” 

“ Well, not for a long time now. Not lately; yet he is 
as suspicious as ever. ” 

“ Once married that would be all at an end.” 

“ So you think. No; I should be afraid to venture. ” 

“ Is that your only reason for hesitating?” 

Miss Charteris blushed and then laughed lightly. 

“ You ask me a good deal,” she said. “ Well, even if 


ON- TEIAL. 


71 


I do confess to its being an only one, surely it is as strong 
as twenty smaller ones. There! I sha'nH submit to any 
further cross-examination. I shall go and give George 
directions about that ring. 

She moved toward the door. Lady Hartley called after 
her. 

“ Don^t be too hard on him,^’ she said. “ You know 
you wouldnT like it were he utterly devoid of jealousy. 
Give him a chance. Why not find some way of putting 
him on trial for a certain time, to test him?^^ 

“ But 1 know of no plan,^' returned Sophy, carelessly. 

As she crossed the hall the door of the library opened, 
and a young man came toward her. He was tall and well 
made and about twenty-nine. He was dressed in tennis 
flannel and held a racket in his hand. He had very dark, 
earnest eyes, and these lit up as he saw Miss Charteris. 

“ I was just going to look for you, Sophy. Come out, 
and let me give you a beating. 

“ I like that!” said she, contemptuously. “ Put it the 
other way round and I may be able to understand you. 
No, I can^t go yet. I should like a game, but there is 
something I must do first. 

“There always is," ^ returned he, in an aggrieved tone. 
“ As a rule I always come off second best with you."" 

“ And quite right, too,"" she laughed, saucily. 

“ I wonder if you care for me at all?"" said Elston, in a 
gloomy sort of way. 

“ Yes, I do,"" returned she, “ sometimes.’* 

“ Which means that I annoy you ‘ sometimes." Is that 
it? Why are you silent, Sophy? Tell me my sin."" 


72 


ON TRIAL. 


“ Would you really have me tell you?” asked she, grave- 
ly, lifting her eyes to his. 

“ I would, indeed. 

‘‘Why, then,” said she, softly, “beware, my lord, of 
jealousy. ” 

“Jealous! You think me jealous!” exclaimed he. 
“ Why, I believe I am the least jealous man on earth. 
Were it otherwise, you—” He stopped abruptly. 

“ Go on,” said she, a little haughtily. “ Were it other- 
wise you think I should give you food for it; but you for- 
get that there is no reason why I should study your wishes. 
You have no claim on me.” 

This was a little cruel of her, but she was angry. 

“ I know that,” he said, humbly. He regarded her with 
a keen reproach. “ Sophy! will you never give me that 
claim?” 

“I tell you I should be afraid,” said Miss Cliarteris, 
softened in a degree by that submissive glance, but still 
rather impatiently. . “ A jealous man is a terrible thing. 

“ I think you misjudge me. Of course, very naturally, 
I should like all your smiles to be my own, but I do not 
really believe I am the irrational creature you would por- 
tray me. Try me, Sophy. Give yourself to me and I do 
not think you will repent it.” 

He had taken her hand, and now, holding it fast, sought 
to read her eyes. But she kept them religiously lowered. 
Still she did not draw her hand away, and it was evident 
that she hesitated. It even seemed to him, by the yielding 
of her lips, that she was almost on the point of speech that 


ON TRIAL. 


73 


would declare her won, when suddenly she moved back 
from Iiira and shook her charming head. There was a 
new light in her eyes as she looked up, as though she liad 
come to some strange resolution. 

“ I shall put you on trial first,^^ she said, gayly. Lady 
Hartley's last words, though still so fresh in her mind, 
were already bearing fruit. “ Do not look so frightened,^' 
she went on, smiling. “ Your probation shall not be too 
prolonged. Just one small week! If during those seven 
days you prove yourself three times unreasonably jealous 
of any act of mine, you will — ” 

“ Three times! Oh, absurd!" he said, hastily. “ You 
can not really imagine me so senseless as that." 

“lam generous, you see," said she, calmly. “ As you 
yourself admit, I give you a large margin. Perhaps," 
with a slight but charming blush, “ I do not wish you to 
fail. Well! No! Stay just there and listen. If you 
should chance to sin thus three times you will give me 
your word to relinquish forever all hope of — well, of — oh, 
you know!" she said. “ On the other hand, if you do not 
sin thrice, I for my part will promise to — " 

“ Yes, go on," entreated he, eagerly. “ You will give 
yourself to me as my reward. Is that it?" 

“ Let it be so," said she, smiling prettily, while her 
blush deepened. lie bent over her hands and kissed them 
with a fond and tender passion. 

“I did not think this morning that midday would see 
me so happy a man, " he said, with glad triumph, his dark 
eyes ahght. 


74 


ON TRIAL. 


“ Do not boast/ ^ said she, warningly. But she smiled 
as she warned, and he heeded only the smile. 

“ This is Thursday. This day week I shall envy no 
man. 

She ran away from him, up two or three steps of the 
staircase, but his voice compelled her to stop. 

“ DonT be long,^^ he entreated; and there was hope and 
joy and new life in his tone. 

“ About ten minutes. If you donT mind waiting about 
for a bit, 1^11 join you, then.^^ 

He did “ wait about, ’Mor such a considerably longer 
“ bit than the ten minutes named that he was a trifle 
restless and impatient when at last she did appear. She 
tripped down as unconcernedly as possible, however, with 
a letter in her hand. 

“ Oh! it was thaf kept you,^’ said he, casting a wrathful 
glance at the letter. “ To whom were you writing?’^ 

Miss Charteris raised her brows, and then looked 
amused. “ What a singularly rude question,’^ she said. 

He colored. “ Was it rude? Why?” 

“ For the simple reason that I might not care to tell 
you.’" 

“ Why should you not care?” 

To this she made no answer beyond a little swift glance 
as she moved toward the post-bag that lay on a side table. 
By some accident her hand brushed against the heavy 
fronds of a large fern, and the letter fell to the ground, 
address uppermost. 

It was quite impossible that he could prevent himself 


OIT TRIAL. 


75 


from seeing it. The writing was singularly large and legi- 
ble for a woman, and 

“ The lion. George Markham j 

“ The Albany i 

London.’* 

was so clear that it might have been print of a good type. 
His face was as dark as night as he picked it up and re- 
turned it to Miss Charteris. 

It wasn^t my fault, he said. 

“ Certainly not. It was my awkwardness. Still, as you 
know, it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and — ^you 
have had your curiosity gratified. ” She was a little flushed 
as she spoke — a fact that Elston saw and dwelt upon. 

“ I have seen what I had no desire to see,*'* he answered, 
stiffly. 

“ Well, why shouldn’t I write to George?’^ she asked, a 
touch of defiance in her tone. “ He is a very old friend.^’ 
She was a little put out by the whole affair. 

“ Why, indeed? I am bound, of course, to remember 
that he was first in the field. 

“Oh! If you put it that way!^’ she said. She turned 
sharply away, and then as suddenly stopi^ed. “ I sup- 
pose, indignantly, you think I ought to open that letter 
and show you the contents. ” 

“ I do,” returned he, boldly. ’ 

“ You suspect me, then?^^ 

“ I should certainly like to see what you have written to 
Markham. You call him an old friend, but you must 


76 


ON TKIAL. 


acknowledge he was rather more than that to you a year 
ago.’^ 

“ Not more to me — whatever I may have been to him. 
She paused, and then throwing up her head, regarded him 
fixedly. “ You remember our compact of a wliile since?’’ 
she asked. “ Such a little while. A bare half hour, I 
think. You remember it?” 

He paled perceptibly. 

“ Is this jealousy?” she said. 

“ You spoke of jealousy without reason. Am I now 
unreasonable? Have you proved me so?” 

“ Have you proved that you are not so? How do you 
know what this letter contains. There is such a thing as 
Time, that will prove which of us is right.” 

There was scorn in her glance as she looked at him and 
threw down her racket upon a hall chair. 

“ A week!” she said, bitterly. “ I should have made it 
a day ! Already — though but a few minutes have passed 
— you have transgressed once.” 

She cast one last reproachful glance at him, which be- 
trayed the fact of her eyes being full of tears, and then 
left him. 

Although totally unconvinced and inwardly raging 
against George Markham, fear of Sophy’s displeasure had 
such* a hold on Lord Elston, that he determined to subdue 
himself and give her no further cause for anger. What- 
ever happened, whatever she might choose to do, he would 
be blind and deaf to it until this momentous week was at 
an end. Once his, he thought, all would be right Dur- 


ON- TRIAL, 


77 


ing the evening, therefore, he so managed to conduct him- 
self that Miss Charteris, outwardly at least, forgave him. 

The next day brought an influx of visitors for the pri- 
vate theatricals impending, and in which Sophy was to 
bear a principal part. Elston, having no talent that way, 
was, of course, shut out from the frequent rehearsals that, 
after the arrival of the last contingent, went on morning, 
noon and night. He certainly objected to the absorption of 
Sophy’s time, but he was still so careful to avoid a second 
offense, that he pretended a deep interest in the play, 
which secretly was a thing of detestation to liim. 

Among the actors there was a tall, angular young man, 
with a glowing eye, a Roman nose, and a tragic expres- 
sion. This latter was perhaps born of a belief in his own 
histrionic powers, and the opinion of a few friends of his 
that he was the very image of Mr. Irving. He was, at all 
events, the leading spirit of the theatricals that just then 
possessed the guests at Hartley Court. His manner was 
impressive, and he had acquired a trick of taking people 
aside into corners and recesses, behind screens and palms, 
and there whispering to them in a solemn, earnest fashion 
that precluded the idea of frivolity. 

By degrees it became noticeable that it was generally 
Miss Charteris who was drawn by him behind the Japanese 
screens and branching palms. But as the mysterious 
conferences were presumably about the play in which she 
was to take the principal role, and as she seemed to bear 
up wonderfully under the infliction of these repeated inter- 
views, no one felt called upon to go to her rescue. Lord 
Elston writhed beneath it all, yet made no sign. Eor two 


78 


ON TRIAL. 


whole days, indeed, he suffered torments, betraying no 
temper, and putting in rather mechanical smiles in the 
right places; but on the third day an event occurred that 
destroyed his newly formed resolves to endure all things, 
rather than again show himself distrustful of his lady-love. 

On the top of the small liill at the very end of the fruit 
garden, a glass house had been built that was specially dedi- 
cated to pelargoniums. It was rather far from the house, 
and, therefore, seldom visited by any people staying at 
Hartley; but Elston, who was fond of this particular 
flower, strolled up sometimes to look at them, although it 
' was growing toward the end of July, and their first love- 
liness was almost at an end. It was the Monday following 
that eventful Thursday, on which Miss Charteris had j^ut 
liini on his trial, that he went up to the pelargonium-house 
to try and while away the time until he could hope again 
to see Sophy. Ever since these wretched amateurs had de- 
scended upon the house she had been conspicuous by her 
absence from eleven to luncheon — studying her part in her 
own room, as Lord Elston fondly, if erroneously, believed. 

At some distance from it, but on a line with the eastern 
end of the glass house, ran a hedge of laurel sufficiently 
thick to conceal the approach of any one coming from that 
side. Elston, walking leisurely toward it, became all at 
once conscious that a voice — the voice, indeed, in all the 
world for him — was sounding somewhere near. He looked 
through a large hole in the hedge and discovered that Miss 
Charteris was in the house — the door of which was open — 
and that she was not alone! The tragic young man was 
with her! 


ON TKIAL. 


79 


With her! Inadequate explanation! lie was on his 
knees to her! 

Elston felt his color forsake him; his breath come and 
go with difficulty; his limbs tremble beneath him — as he 
took in the fatal scene. Yes! There he was, kneeling be- 
fore her, a whole world of despairing love in his eloquent 
eyes, now more aglow than ever. He was holding her 
hand in both of his in quite a frenzied fashion, and, even 
as Elston gazed, spell-bound, he proceeded to devour it 
with kisses. 

And she! perfidious girl! How did she receive his inso- 
lent advances? With the withering scorn they deserved? 
With a gesture of hatred and aversion? No! She turned 
her head coyly to one side and permitted him without re- 
buke to press the lovely hand upon which he — Elston — 
only a minute since had been tenderly dwelling as upon a 
priceless treasure that yet some day might be his. There 
was a curious expression, too, upon her false face, as 
though she were waiting with a girlish bashfulness for a 
word from him that should decide her fate. 

It came at last. Not one, but many words in a very 
torrent of wild entreaty. 

“ My beloved! My most adored one!” cried he, in 
tones loud and clear; remarkably so, indeed — no doubt on 
account of the intensity of his emotion. “ Do not consign 
me to despair — and an early grave. A single word of 
hope is all I dare demand. Grant it, ere I perish. To- 
morrow will see me over the border; let me take with me 
into my enforced exile one smile, one blessed assurance 
that you are not altogether indifferent to me!’^ 


80 


ON TIilAL. 




He waited her reply in apparently breathless suspense. 
So did Elston. Slowly — very slowly, she pressed her hand- 
kerchief to her averted face. 

“ If I only dared believe you would be true,” she fal- 
tered, very distinctly. 

Elston stayed to hear no more. Stricken, crushed by 
this perfidy, in one he had esteemed so highly, he turned 
his steps backward and went blindly down the path by 
which he had ascended— to his doom. He scarce knew 
whither he went. On and on he walked through the 
shady garden, until at last he came to a high stone wall — 
only recognizing that, indeed, when his nose came nearly 
in contact with it. He could not go through it, and it 
was impossible to climb it, so perforce he jmlled himself 
up and began to retrace his steps. This he did, still in a 
blind fury of rage and grief, that burst into open flame as 
a turn in a path brought him suddenly face to face with 
Sophy. 

She was coming toward him, and was singing — actually 
singing — in a blithe, sweet, careless way, a new ballad that 
had taken her fancy of late. With one hand she was hold- 
ing up her gown — in the other was a big red rose that she 
was swinging lightly to and fro. She looked like one who 
was without a care in the world — or a regret — or a re- 
morse. One could see her dainty feet in their Parisian 
shoes and hear the click-clack of the high heels, as she 
tripped down the little hilly pathway. She seemed indeed 
at the moment the very incarnation of all sweetness and 
light. When she saw Elston she stopped singing and 
smiled instead. 


ON TllIAL. 


81 


“ You here! And at this hour! cried she. “Traitor! 
Have you found me out, then?’^ 

Such hardihood! Such effrontery! 

“Yes. And in tinie,'’^ returned he, standing still and 
gazing at her with concentrated wrath on his pale face. 
Then his anger burst all bounds. “ How do you dare to 
speak to me?^' he said, in a low but terrible tone. Miss 
Charteris drew back. 

“What on earth has happened? Are you mad?^^ she 
said. 

“ Sane rather — at last. This morning I was mad, in- 
deed. Then I believed in you. Now — ” He threw out 
his hand with a gesture that would have done credit to the 
tragic young man himself. “ Now — 1 know all.” 

“ It seems to be a good deal,^^ remarked Miss Charteris, 
composedly, though her face had lost its color. “ It is 
also evidently of much interest. May I hear it?’’ 

“ This persistent deception is unworthy — nay, rather, 
worthy of you,” cried he, bitterly. “ Learn then that 
just now I saw you and — and that mountebank in the glass 
house above.” 

“ I don’t know any mountebank. I am therefore more 
at sea than ever. ” As she said this in her iciest tones, 
his lordshijs regarded her with undisguised disdain. 

“ You know one, at all events,” he said. “ His name 
is Pelham.” Then his rage broke forth again. “ I tell 
you I saw him on his knees to you — swearing, protesting, 
how he loved you, while you — you — listened to him, you 
encouraged him. I did not wait for the end, but your 
manne’' left me no doubt that you accepted him.” 


83 


ON TllIAL. 


Miss Charteris struggled with lierself for a moment, and 
then burst out laughmg. There was a good deal of irre- 
pressible amusement in this laughter, but there was more 
anger. 

“ I see,'^ she said. “ And so you think you surprised 
Captain Pelham making love to me? Now listen — she 
dropped her rose, and drawing a little paper volume from 
her pocket, opened it with much deliberation at a certain 
page, and began to read out aloud : 

“ My beloved! My most adored one! Do not consign 
me to despair — and so on to the end of what he had 
heard behind the laurel hedge. As she proceeded his face 
changed. First it grew blank, then crimson. Then a wild 
hope sprung into it that had to do battle with a great 
shame. AVhen Miss Charteris had finished to the last word 
she j^aused, folded the play with irritating precision, and 
returned it to her pocket. 

“ You have done me and Captain Pelham much honor,^^ 
she said, coolly. “ It is certain that in your eyes at least, 
we shall pass muster as very tolerable actors. She swept 
by him as she spoke, and went on her way to the gate be- 
yond, cruelly unconcerned in manner. She even took up 
and continued the song she had been singing, from the 
very part where she had broken off. She was in nowise 
disconcerted or put out. This indifference was terri- 
ble. 

He hurried after her and caught her up just under the 
hanging ivy of the gate-way. 

“ One word,^^ he entreated, miserably. “ You gave me 
three chances. You remember that!” 


ON" TRIAL. 


83 


“ Yes. I also remember that two of them are at an 
end.^^ 

“ Oh, no. That first one, it has not been 'proved un- 
reasonable. ” 

“ I told you not to depend too much on that. On 
Thursday next you shall eee that objectionable letter.^’ 
She would barely look at him, and his heart sunk. If she 
could show him that letter, there must indeed have been 
nothing in it to justify his jealousy! Still there was one 
more chance left him. He took courage. 

“ You blame me,^^ he said, in a low voice. “ But you 
might know that if I did not love you as I do, you would 
not have to blame me. I jiray you to remember that. ’’ 

She made him no answer to this, beyond a swift glance 
he found it difficult to translate; and a moment later she 
had passed through the little ivied gate into the flower- 
garden beyond, and he had not then the courage to follow 
her. 

He stayed behind, therefore, and upbraided himself 
fiercely. He took himself to task in a shower of genuine 
abuse. He absented himself from luncheon, and at dinner 
it took him quite a little time to make up his mind about 
even glancing at her when he found her on his other side. 
He did manage it, however, and looked so long that she 
was at length obliged to notice him. After that, touched 
perhaps by the unhappiness of his eyes, she softened to- 
ward him, and to his intense surprise and gratitude was 
considerably kinder than he deserved. 

The next day went smoothly without a single hitch; and 
if at eleven o^clock he winced inwardly as he thought of 


84 


ON TRIAL. 


the two who were then in all probability among the pelar- 
goniums, he was -very careful not to betray it. He was 
happier, too, in spite of all this than he had been for some 
time. Miss Charteris toward evening grew very nearly her 
old sweet self again. Nay, more than that. It seemed to 
Elston that she was softer, tenderer in her manner to him 
than she had ever been before; that her eyes rested on his 
with a more lingering regard; and once, when he unex- 
pectedly turned his glance in her direction, he caught her 
looking at him, and surprised the vivid blush with which 
she turned aside. 

His hopes rose high, and he came down-stairs next 
morning, Wednesday, happy in the knowledge that only 
one more day lay between him and the fulfillment of his 
fondest desire. Certainly that third sin should not find 
him out, for the simple reason that he would not commit 
it. He would be calm, circumspect It was, indeed, im- 
possible that he should ever feel jealousy about her again. 

It was perhajDS a little shock to him to find George 
Markham at breakfast when he got down. He had arrived 
by an early train, and as Elston entered the room, was 
just saying “ How d'ye do " to Miss Charteris. She was 
a girl who spoke very distinctly, and Elston could hear 
what she was saying. She was smiling in very friendly 
wise at Markham, though her manner was suspiciously re- 
proachful. 

“ I thought you were never coming," she said. “How 
you put it off from day to day. And when you Tcmw why 
I wanted you. " After that she and Markham entered into, 
and were apparently lost in, an engrossing discussion that 


ON TRIAL. 


85 


lasted until breakfast, a rather prolonged meal at Hartley, 
was at an end. 

Lord Elston could not forget that once this man had 
been Sophy’s avowed lover. He had, indeed, according to 
all accounts, been her devoted slave. He looked uncom- 
monly like a slave still — following her about and giving 
himself up to her, as it were, for the entire morning. Pel- 
ham, in spite of his expression and tragic powers, was no- 
where. Markham monopolized her all through, getting 
her to show him the new fish-pond and tennis-court and 
otherwise making himself specially disagreeable. 

Miss Charteris, however, did not seem to find him disa- 
greeable at all. She seemed, on the whole, very glad to be 
with him. She introduced him to Elston with quite a little 
flow of pleasure in her manner, and said ecstatically that it 
was “ veiy nice to see two old friends of hers with each 
other.” This was putting Markham in the same category 
with himself — when surely he, Elston, was more than a 
friend. 

Feeling rather disconsolate after luncheon, he broke 
away from one or two of the other guests, who wanted him 
to join them in a long drive to some distant abbey, and, 
lighting a cigarette, wandered into one of the conserva- 
tories.' Sophy, he had discovered, was not going to this 
abbey, neither was Markham — a fact in itself suspicious. 
He was feeling distinctly gloomy as he stepped into the 
region of flowers, and without giving a thought to their 
beauty, paced slowly up and down. It was at his second 
turn that his eyes, moodily lowered to the ground, fell 
upon an object that instantly riveted all his attention. 


86 


ON TRIAL. 


A letter, wide open, and written in a large, sprawling 
hand. The beginning was at the other side, of course, but 
what now caught his eye was enough. 

“ a moment sooner. Hurried my best. But those lawyer 
fellows are impossible to move. I will bring the ring, but 
only hope it isnT too large. It looks enormous. How- 
ever, as it is my first purchase of the kind, you must for- 
give me if I have erred in any way. Ever, dear Sophy, 
yours, G. Markham. 

The writing was so large that he read it from where he 
stood. He read it unconsciously. His eyes had fallen 
upon it, and, before he was aware of it, the sense of the 
words had entered into his brain. What was he to do 
now? He was a little frightened at the strange feeling that 
took possession of him. It was not rage, or grief, or dis- 
appointment. It was something far worse than all. He 
hardly realized at first that it was despair. 

“Lawyers.” He wondered dimly if it were her mar- 
riage settlement they were so slow about. “ His first pur- 
chase of the kind.’’ Very natural. It isn’t every day a 
man buys a wedding-ring. He hadn’t a doubt in liis mind 
but that it was a wedding-ring to be placed on Sophy’s 
finger by Markham. 

He was not angry this time. He was only cold and 
stunned. For the first time in all his life he was entirely 
without hope. He wondered in a dull sort of way that he 
had never until now discovered how much Sophy was to 
him. 


OIT TllIAL. 


87 


He was still staring at the cruel letter, though with eyes 
that saw not, when Sophy herself entered the conservatory. 
Of course she saw the letter, and instantly stooped to pick 
it up. 

“ I seem to be dropping my possessions all over the 
place, she said. “ My Syrian bangle in the garden half 
an hour a — good gracious! What is the matter noivT* 
She had caught a glimpse at Elston's face, and it electri- 
fied her. Indeed, it made a picture. 

“ Don't let us go into it, Sophy," he said, brokenly. 
“ Why should I distress you? It was all my own folly 
from first to last, I dare say. I should have seen — have 
known — " 

“ But what ?" demanded she, as he paused; he felt in- 
deed unequal to going on, and looked so altogether strange 
and down-hearted that Miss Charteris was unnerved. 
“ What is it? Tell me," she said. He pointed to the let- 
ter she still held in her hand. 

“If you had only told me," he cried. “Oh, Sophy! 
was it then so great an amusement to you to break my 
heart?" 

“ To break — " She gazed at him, lost in perplexity. 
Vaguely her eyes wandered to the letter, the word “ ring " 
caught her eye; in a moment the whole truth flashed upon 
her. A warm crimson sprung to her cheek, and I regret 
to say she so far forgot herself as to stamp her pretty shoe 
upon the tessellated pavement. 

“ You are really maddening !” she cried. “ You are 
beyond pardon." She might, and in all probability, 
would, have said a great deal more, had not the sound of 


88 


ON TRIAL. 


an approaching footstep checked her. She turned her 
head to see George Markham. 

“ George/^ she said, sweetly, with a complete change of 
tone and expression, “ would you mind bringing me that 
— that little message I wrote to you about last Thursday? 
Bring it here. Lady Hartley has it, I think. Get it from 
her.^^ 

“ Oh, the ring,^^ said Mr. Markham; and he went back 
again the way he had come, whistling idly. Miss Char- 
teris, in his absence, employed herself thrumming in a 
rather vicious manner upon the pane nearest to her. She 
did not look at Elston, who was deadly silent, with an 
awful growing fear full upon him that he had been for the 
third, and fatal time, mistaken! Presently Markham re- 
turned and laid something in her hand. 

“ 1 had a battle royal to get it,^’ he said, laughing. “ It 
appears baby lives by it alone. It is a huge Success, Lady 
Hartley says, an you love her, donT keep it long.^ 

Still laughing, he lounged away, through the outer 
door, down the steps, and into the garden. When he was 
quite gone, Sophy advanced on Lord Elston. She then 
opened her pretty pink palm and held it out to him. A 
curious object lay on it. 

‘‘ There is the ring !” she said, in a voice untranslata- 
ble. 

It was a terrible thing. A hateful wormy sort of thing, 
made of gutta-percha; but if liideous, at least innocent — 
innocent, no doubt, hecause hideous. It was black and 
soft and bendable, and big enough to fit a giant^s thumb. 
Elston gazed at it as if fascinated, and at last, in spite of 


OK TRIAL. 


89 


the pride that would have held him silent, was constrained 
to speak. 

“ What is 

“ Baby’s teething-ring,” returned she, slowly. When 
she had proved to him his guilt, she did not try to leave 
him, but stood erect, her beautiful figure drawn up to its 
fullest height, a strange gravity upon her beautiful lips. 

“ This is the third time,” she said, at last, in a low tone, 
as though speaking to herself. He started violently. 
Noticing this, she let her eyes rest more fully on him and 
went on slowly: “ Your probation, my lord, is at an end.” 

“ So is my life,” said he. 

“ As for that first chance — that letter of mine — you 
shall see it now, as I promised.” 

“Oh! no, no,” he said, entreating her by a gesture not 
to go into that. “ I understand. I submit. I am surely 
unfortunate enough.” 

She hesitated for a moment, and then said: 

“ You remember our compact?” 

“ And all it means to me. Have I not told you so? 
Spare me, I beseech you, what you can. ” 

“ This is the final throw, and you have lost.” 

“ Everything? All is over, then, between us?” 

“All!” 

She made a little impetuous movement, and he, inter- 
" preting it, moved to' the door and flung it wide for her to 
pass through. With her would go all liis hopes, his de- 
sires. Nothing would remain, save that saddest of all 
things, memory. 

He stood, his eyes downcast, waiting for her to go. He 


DO 


ON TRIAL. 


felt numbed, stupid; but presently it did dawn down upon 
him that it was strange she should keep him so long in 
attendance on her. Whilst he thus mused, a voice, soft, 
sweet, unsteady, fell upon his ears. 

“ Arthur, it said. 

He let the door go and looked at her. She had covered 
her face with her hands, and was crying quietly but bitter- 
ly. In a second she w'as in his arms. 

“ My darling! my darling!^^ whispered he. “ Has it 
hurt you so much? Has it so grieved you? Oh, Sophy, 
do not cry like that! In time you will forget all this and 
— me.^^ 

“ Ah! that is just it,^^ sobbed Miss Charteris, indig- 
nantly; “ I can^t forget you. And to think you would 
have let me go forever, without another word — another 
glance — oh, I would not have helieved it of you!^’ 

“ Sophy, do you know what you are saying? After all, 
is there a chance for me?^^ 

He was very pale as he looked at her. 

“ Yes, a fourth,^' said she, smiling through her tears. 
“And then — oh, no, she cried, nervously, “we won’t 
have any more trials; I hate them. But you toill try to 
be good now, won’t you?” 

“ I don’t think I shall ever offend you again, Sophy; I 
don’t, indeed.” 

“Very well,” said she. “That is a promise, mind; 
and now I must run away and give back this ring to Lady 
Hartley.” 

“Ah! talking of rings,” said he, a little awkwai-dly; 
“ there — there is sonietliing I want to say to you. On 


ON TEIAL. 


91 


Thursday last I was so sure I should not fall into disgrace 
that I telegraphed to town, and,^^ fumbling in his pocket, 
“ got you this. You will wear it now, Soj)hy?^^ 

“ This was a very exquisite ring, altogether different 
from that horrid black thing which had wrought such mis- 
chief. 

“ Oh! how lovely!^^ cried Miss Charteris, who was not 
above raptures where diamonds were concerned. “ Oh, 
Arthur, thanJc '^owV* 

He slipped it on her finger — the finger — and she regard- 
ed it with most satisfactory delight. • 

“ It is I who should thank you,^^ said he, tenderly, “ for 
deigning to acce23t it. But — but if I were to thank a per- 
son, Sophy, I should do it more warmly than you.^^ 

She cast a little, swift, shy glance at him and blushed 
crimson. She hesitated, then moved a step nearer to him, 
and lifted her face slightly. 

It was their first kiss, but not their last. 


THEIR LAST RESOURCE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

“Oh! it is tnore than -unfortunate. I don^t believe I 
ever was so disappointed in my life. If it had happened 
any other .evening but this — and at the last moment, too!* 
It is really too bad.^’ Tears of mortification stood in her 
eyes. 

“ Only what one should expect froni a servant,^’ said 
her sister, the Hon. Mrs. Trevenning, smoothing down a 
fold of her exquisite ball-gown and frowning slightly. 
“ They are ever and always the most troublesome set on 
earth. It often occurs to me that they do things p?<r- 
2 me! Would any one, I ask you, except one’s coachman, 
elect to break his collar-bone at ten o’clock on the night of 
the best ball of the season? I should think not, indeed. 
It is just the little bit too much.” 

“ If you had only refused leave to Thomas this morn- 
ing!” 

“ What could I do, my good child? He said his mother 
was dying, and I suppose even a footman has feelings. 
One daren’t be brutal nowadays.” 

“ It looks like an artfully planned design,” said Miss 
Dare, indignantly. She stood before a mirror that reached 
from floor to ceiling in her sister’s boudoir, and surveyed 
( 93 ) 


THEIE LAST RESOUKCE. 


93 


her slender figure, clad in its perfect gown, with a glance 
of the deepest melancholy. “ To think of the hours I 
have spent over this dress, she said. “ I believe I wore 
Vri(^re nearly to death^s door; and all for nothing. No 
one will see it to-night. 

“ Well, there is nothing to be gained by crying over it,^^ 
declared Mrs. Trevenning, with a touch of impatience. 
“My gown is as good as yours any day, and is just as 
likely to blush unseen so far as to-night is concerned. I 
only wish I knew how I was to pay for it. Make up your 
mind to the inevitable, Connie, wliich means staying at 
home for this evening at least. 

“I can^t,^^ declared Connie, desperately. “I have 
dwelt too long upon this one ball to feel resigned to its loss 
all in a second. Oh, if anything could be done — ” 

Here the door was flung wide, and a tall young man in 
a morning suit of gray tweed came into the room. He 
was rather dark, and very like Mrs. Trevenning. 

“What! YoUi Dudley?’^ cried she. “And at this 
hour? Why, where have you come from?^^ 

“ The Manor, straight. The old boy is better, so I left 
him nursing the leg, and ran up to town to have a little 
fling before the season says good-bye. How specially fest- 
ive you two look! Going anywhere?^' 

Mrs. Trevenning reseated herself with a little groan, 
and Constance made a gesture of despair. 

“ By Jove! Who’s dead? What’s wrong?” asked their 
brother, very properly impressed by this display of feeling. 

“Everything. Everything!” cried Constance. “This 
very instant we have had word sent us that Martin the 


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coachman fell in the stable half an hour ago and broke his 
collar-bone; Thomas, Vivienne^s new footman, started 
early this morning to attend his mother’s sick-bed; and 
here we are, dressed to go out, and not a soul to drive us. 
It is the Duchess of Dartrie’s ball, and the princess is to 
be there, and Viv and I got new gowns for it, and — alto- 
gether — it is a shame, isn’t it?” 

“ The deuce of a sell,” said Sir Dudley, with honest 
sympathy. “ But why not try a cab for once?” 

Constance looked hopefully at her sister, but Mrs. Tre- 
venning shook her handsome head. 

“ Impossible! We have promised, for one tiling, to call 
for Helen; and besides, to go there in a cab! Oh! no, I 
couldn’t do that.” 

‘‘ AVell, Dudley, think of something else — do,” im- 
jilored his younger sister: she was his favorite, and a very 
pretty girl. “ You might try to help us,” she said. Her 
face was quite tragical, and Sir Dudley, looking at it, 
laughed. 

“ Well, — I will,” he said. “ Tell you what I’ll do. 
Get me old Martin’s coat and gloves and hat, and I’ll 
drive you myself . ” 

Miss Dare cast a reproachful glance at him as though 
disbelieving; but Mrs. Trevenning sprung to her feet and 
clapped her hands. 

“ The very thing,” cried she. “ Dudley, you have 
saved us!” She ran to the bell, and rang it sharply. 
“I’ll order the regimentals to your old room, and the car- 
riage to the door at once. If you tuck the rug carefully 
round your knees nobody will notice your trousers.” 


THEIR LAST RESOURCE. 


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“ I earnestly hope that no one will notice said Sir 
Dudley. “ That^s the principal thing!’’ 

“ Good heavens, yes!” said Mrs. Trevenning. “ Dear 
Dudley, do be cautious. Fancy if any one were to 
recognize you, and it were to come out in one of those de- 
testable society papers. What an imbroglio!” There was 
a gleam of hope in her eye. 

“ It would set you up for life,” said Sir Dudley, calmly. 
“ Consider how you would be run after and pointed out 
for months to come. What greater bliss could fall to the 
share of any woman?” 

His raillery was kindly, and Mrs. Trevenning, who in 
secret hankered wildly after notoriety, took no notice of it, 
beyiud making a little moue as she passed him. 

Later on, when they interviewed him in the hall pre- 
paratory to starting, he was found to be quite satisfactory. 
The light tweed trousers certainly mihtated against the 
perfection of his toilet, but they trusted to the friendly rug 
to hide this discrepancy. 

Whatever you do, don’t get down/* said Mrs. Treven- 
ning, who began to feel something of the delight of private 
theatricals. “ And for goodness’ sake, don’t forget your 
role for a moment. When you are opening the door for 
Helen, be sure you touch your hat. ” 

Yes ’m,” said Sir Dudley, in the most approved style; 
after which they all got down to the carriage, two maids 
full of a decorous hilarity bringing up the rear, armed 
with cloaks and fans. 

The impromjitu coachman was directed to drive first to 
Park Lane to pick up “ Helen.” “ Who is Helen, what 


96 THEIR LAST RESOURCE. 

is she?’^ thought Dudley, to whom the name conveyed no 
memories; but there was no time just then to ask ques- 
tions. It was close on eleven o’clock. He felt rather glad 
he didn’t know the lady mentioned, as, though it would 
have been diflacult to make him feel shame about such an 
affair as this, he was obliged to confess to himseK, once he 
was seated and had the reins in his hands, that he would 
be rather glad than otherwise when his self-imposed task 
was at an end. Yes, he wished himself well out of it. 
Why, if any of the other of the four-in-hand fellows were 
to see and recognize him, he should never hear the end of 
it. And these horses of Trevenning’s were not his form 
at all. “ Sorry nags,” he called the slow, respectable, 
well-fed beasts, who went, thought he, as though they 
were mourning the corpse behind them. 

“ You will drive quietly, won’t you, Dudley?” Mrs. 
Trevenning had said, nervously, as a last word. “ Not 
as you do on that dreadful coach. Remember, now, like a 
darling boy.” 

The darling boy smiled grimly to himself as he drove 
along at a funeral pace. It suggested itself to him that if 
he laid down the reins and gave them their own sweet will 
they would go as well as he could drive them. But fortu- 
nately he abstained from this experiment, and consequent- 
ly they arrived safely at the house appointed in Park 
Lane, where the unknown “ Helen ” was to^be picked 
up. 

Almost as they drew up there the hall door was opened 
and a tall slight figure muffled in an Eastern shawl ran 
down to the carriage. 


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At last! I was quite afraid something had hap- 
pened. ” The voice was girlish and very sweet, and had a 
curious vibration in it that thrilled the hearer. A servant 
followed her to open the carriage door, and whilst he was 
doing it Dare caught a glimpse of her face. 

Such an exquisite face! Arch, yet tender, firm, yet 
soft. He had no time to criticise any special feature, so 
quickly she turned away and was swallowed up by the car- 
riage, but he knew her eyes were as dark as her hair, and 
that if he lived forever he should never be ableio forget 
that one sweet glimpse. 

He heard, as if in a dream, some one telling him to go 
on again, and still in a dream he pursued his way through 
the lamp-lit streets, and presently drew up before an open 
door-way that shone more brilliantly than its companions 
on either side. He watched her from his post of vantage 
walk up the carpeted steps and disappear into the hall, 
and was conscious of a distant blank when the envious 
walls hid her from his sight. 

Another carriage coming up behind obliged him to take 
the horses out of the way, or probably he would even now 
have been staring at the steps up which she had gone; cir- 
cumstances, however, were too many for him, and he was 
compelled to retire speedily and with as little consideration 
for the new-born feelings that had sprung to life within 
him, as though he were in truth the hireling he simulated. 
How he got through the next few hours he never after- 
ward remembered. All he could think of was this one 
fair woman; this Helen, of whom he knew nothing. Who 
was she? Was she Miss or Mrs. ? His heart contracted as 

4 


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he admitted the possibility of the latter title. He could 
get it all out of Mrs. Trevenning in the morning of course, 
but in the meantime he was lost in a miserable ignorance. 

“ OhI Helen fair, beyond compare.” 

Would he ever know more of her than now he knew? He 
made one desperate effort to discover her identity, an 
effort that ended in dismal failure. Fate drove him up to 
a respectable middle-aged gentleman in his own (present) 
rank of life, who, reclining gracefully against an adjacent 
wall, smoked the peaceful pipe. Dare all his life had been 
told that nothing was hid from servants, and the idea grew 
upon him that perhaps this man might tell him something 
of the family residing in that particular house in Park 
Lane from which the lovely Helen had descended. 

He made himself very specially charming to the respect- 
able man for five minutes or so, during which he sustained 
the entire conversation, the respectable man being en- 
grossed with the pipe, and evidently of a taciturn disposi- 
tion. He was so reserved, indeed, that he quite won on 
Dare, who thought him modest, and, for his state of life, 
refined. After a few preliminaries, therefore, he asked 
him if he knew who lived in such and such a house. Park 
Lane. 

The refined man had now come to an end of his pipe, 
and, as Sir Dudley discovered, was more equal to conversa" 
tion than he had before supposed. 

“ Blest if I do,'' said he — “ beyant the fact that t' ain't 
my gal's 'ouse. Reason of askin'? Soft on Parlor or 
Cookie, eh?" 


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Sir Dudley moved away. He now told himself he had 
been mistaken, and that the man had very bad manners; 
and he refrained from questioning any one else. No, he 
would trust to chance to reveal her to him. 

It was the longest night he ever spent. He wondered 
whether they would ever get tired of dancing, and assured 
himself it was the last time he would place himself in such 
a predicament. He thought bitterly of Mrs. Trevenning^s 
staying powers when she had found a partner that suited 
her, and of how Connie would be safe to meet Carlton 
there, and, given an isolated spot in a conservatory, would 
straightway forget that such an important thing as Time 
existed. 

And Helen! Was she too — ? Pshaw! that way mad- 
ness lay. He would not believe but that he might yet 
have a chance of trying his fortune with her. He could 
not forget her face. It was love at first sight — and a ter- 
rible attack of it. He had sneered at such an idea when 
other men had spoken of it as being not only possible but 
probable, and now — 

Helen! Helen of Troy. Pooh! he didnT believe that 
old-world beauty could have held a candle to this modern 
Venus. He was getting excited over the question, when 
some friendly person cried aloud for Mrs. Trevenning's 
carriage, and he drove up with quite a rush, and saw her 
of whom his thoughts were full come down the steps be- 
neath a blaze of light into the shadow below. 

As a matter of fact, five came down at the same mo- 
ment, but Sir Dudley was too far gone to see more than 
one; which shows the exact difference that lies in giving 


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way to love, and wine. Constance Dare was accompanied 
by one young man who seemed decidedly epris, whilst 
another hung over “ Helen with an air of devotion that 
drove Sir Dudley to the verge of frenzy. To go for that 
man, to wrest from him his prize, was liis sole desire. 
The reins slackened in his grasp, and he bent forward, ob- 
livious of everything, in his anxiety to see what was going 
on beneath him. This brought him within the glare of the 
lamps, and the man talking to Constance, lifting his head 
suddenly, saw him. 

“Why — what!^^ exclaimed he, spasmodically. Miss 
Dare, following his glance, caught his arm. 

“ Not a word, not a syllable. To-morrow ITl ex- 
plain — ” whispered she, divided between fear and 
mirth. 

This conquered peril was unknown to Sir Dudley, who 
still continued to glare at the back of his rival’s head, as 
he already designated “ Helen’s ” companion. Animal 
magnetism is a power, no doubt, and now it compelled the 
rival to turn his glance in the direction of Mrs. Treven- 
ning’s coachman. Nothing came of this, however. Dud- 
ley caught sight of Ms face first, and, starting as if shot, 
faced round and fell into an attitude that was anything but 
easy, but which permitted him to devote his entire atten- 
tion to the reins. 

It was Tommy Mornington! — colonel in the Cold- 
streams, and the most notorious gossip about town. If he 
were once to get wind of this, and to — to retail it to her in 
his usual biting sarcastic way — (nasty way, by Jove!) — ^how 
should he ever be able to approach her? He kept his face 


THEIR LAST RESOURCE. 


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rigidly averted, even from her, and sat in durance vile, 
until Carlton, Connie’s man, called out to him “ Home.’ 
Was there a sense of smothered laughter in his tone? 

He drew up with quite an old coachman-like touch at 
the house of Mrs. Trevenning, who got out of the carriage, 
as did Constance. He waited with an eager longing and a 
most unservant-like straining of the neck in the direction 
of the carriage-door to see fair Helen follow them. His 
astonishment became intense as he saw she did not appear, 
and that the other two were leaning toward thp window, 
murmuring good-nights, and good-byes, numberless. He 
could even see that Mrs. Trevenning leaned forward as if to 
kiss some one, and then drew back and looked up at him. 
She was the image of Sir Dudley, and had the same merry 
daring look in her blue eyes. 

“ To Park Lane — Dud — Martin,” said she, and he 
knew by her expression, which was mischievous, that the 
slip was a premeditated one, meant to frighten him. But 
he forgave her — for was she not rendering up to his sole 
care for a few sweet minutes the one perfect creature upon 
earth? 

He didn’t call the horses “ sorry nags ” this time. 
Their slowness delighted him. He drove with the utmost 
caution — the most extraordinary care. It even occuri-ed 
to fair Helen within that the Trevennings’ coachman was 
a leech of the first water, but he could not bring himself 
to hurry up the horses even to please her. They were 
alone, he and she, as utterly alone in the great "heart of 
town as lover’s soul could desire. Separated only by a 
miserable partition of wood and paint and padding— a 


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trumpery separation, that it delighted him to think he 
could smash into bits in no time. 

In spite of himself, however, he had to get to the house 
at last, and with a pang he watched the tall slender figure 
go up to the hall door. She had left him — and this car- 
riage, which from henceforth would be sacred to him. 
Should he ever see her again, once those doors opened to 
receive her? 

Meantime the senseless doors seemed slow to grasp their 
prize. Fair Helen knocked, first in a reasonable way, 
then loudly — then louder still. She pulled the bell with a 
marvelous vigor for one so delicate in face and form. But 
answer came there none. Sir Dudley, very much against 
his will, sat holding the reins, longing yet fearing to go to 
her assistance, and glad in the thought that he need not 
leave her until he saw her safely in-doors. Presently it 
began to dawn upon him that this would not be imme- 
diately. 

Again she knocked: again she rang with quite the same 
result. He was watching her anxiously, and now he saw 
that she turned her face to him with a suspicion of nerv- 
ousness in her manner, as though she found comfort in the 
knowledge that he was still there. That glance undid 
him! The unconscious appeal in her eyes made him ob- 
livious of all other considerations, and springing down 
from his seat he hastened to her side. 

“ Allow me,” he said, gently, and, taking the knocker 
from her fingers, beat a resounding rat-a-tat upon the 
door. He was delighted with the knocker. Action of any 
sort that would be in her service he was longing for just 


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103 


then, and, nothing else presenting itself, he worked off this 
longing on the unoffending door. He was, indeed, so en- 
grossed mth his desire to awake the sleeping household 
that he quite forgot that state of life into which he had 
entered to oblige his sisters, and was therefore the more 
startled and confounded when presently he found her eyes 
fixed upon him with an intensity suggestive of astonish- 
ment. Her expression was a curious blending of surprise 
and bewilderment, and there was too, he thought, a little 
uneasiness in it. 

It all flashed upon him in a second. There he stood, in 
the Trevenning livery from the knees up, and for the rest 
there were light tweed trousers and a pair of boots that 
servants as a rule do. not aspire to! He became at the 
same time conscious that his gloves' were absurdly too big 
for him, and that the hat was ludicrous on his head, at all 
events, whatever it might be on that of the venerable Mar- 
tin. Truly this niad freak of his was costing him dear! 
In one wild moment he felt that to cut and run was all 
that was left him, but presently he rallied. 

“I'm afraid they are all asleep, m'," ho said, being so 
desirous of making a point of the respectful m' that he 
overdid it terribly, and left matters worse than they were 
before. 

“lam afraid so too," replied she, steadily, though she 
still regarded him with an evident distrust, that seemed to 
grow as the moments waned. “ My maid was to have sat up 
for me, but I suppose she— Will you knock again, please?" 

He did knock again, with redoubled ardor this time. 
He was as anxious now as she was to get the confounded 


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door open. That distrustful glance had hurt him sorely. 
He felt all the time he was hammering away at the 
knocker that her eyes were fixed on the unlucky trousers, 
and as for the hat — once again memory rose to make him 
wretched. He recollected the fatal likeness that existed 
between him and Mrs. Trevenning, and he jammed down 
the big hat well over his brow with a view to concealing 
from her the family features. If he failed in this, he suc- 
ceeded at all events in making himself grotesque in an un- 
usually high degree. 

The knocking rang through the empty air, and dying 
away, left an unnatural silence behind it. The day had 
broken, and now a still, pale, ghostly light crept slowly 
over the housetops and trembled through the street. The 
sweet cold smell of dawn came to them through all the 
smoke and depression of the great city beyond, and yet it 
seemed to them that the beauty of the fresh young morn 
had something of sadness in it. The stillness was almost 
oppressive. Fair Helen stood motionless, a little pale; 
while Sir Dudley, in his motley garments, waited with a 
throbbing heart for some sound — a footstep — inside this 
terrible door, that should put an end to a moment so 
charged with difficulties. What an unearthly ’quiet! Why 
did she not say something? 

Suddenly, with an appalling yell such as a cat alone can 
give, a lean grimalkin rushed across the street and disap- 
peared into some unseen corner. It was a wicked venge- 
ful cry, and so startled fair Helen that she instinctively 
shrunk backward, and a faint exclamation broke from her 
lips. 


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105 


“Oh! will they never open the door?” she said, faintly. 
He caught a hurried glance so full of nervous suspicion 
that it horrified him. Good heavens! That she should 
look at him like that. He could not tell, of course, that 
with the hat thus pressed upon his forehead, and coming 
down almost to his nose, he looked like nothing so much 
as a burglar, unless it might be a murderer; and felt a 
rather hurt astonishment that she should so unkindly re- 
gard him. 

As ho still pondered on this there came at last a distant 
sound from witliin; nearer it came, until there could be no 
mistake at all about its being a footstep. 

Ah!” cried she, with such an undeniable air of relief 
that Dudley knew himself finally crushed. The door was 
opened by a frightened, sleepy maid, and Helen stepped 
quickly into the safe shelter of the hall. As she went 
something fell from her with a tinkling sound upon the 
pavement. It was her fan. Sir Dudley stooped, picked it 
up, and handed it to her. 

Standing under the hall lamp as she was, with some soft 
lace falling back from her dark head, and with a warm 
flush upon her cheeks, she looked even loveher than ho 
had before seen her. Was she as cruel as she was beauti- 
ful? 

Perhaps she saw the touch of reproach in his eyes. 

“ Oh, thank you,” she said, hurriedly, taking the fan. 
She made him a faint hesitating salutation — which after- 
ward occurred to him as being somewhat strange — and he 
— raised his hat ! The hat! Martinis hat! It was flabby 
at the brim, and there was a difficulty about the doing of 


106 


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this every-day act, but certainly he raised it. Once again 
fair Helen fixed upon him a questioning gaze, more boldly 
this time because of the presence of her maid, and Sir 
Dudley, with the only bit of wisdom he had betrayed all 
through, beat a hasty retreat. 

As he went home he wondered where he should see her 
again. Mrs. Trevenning would of course be able to man- 
age it for him, but somehow he decided on saying nothing 
to either of his sisters about her. There would be Lady 
Bellingham ^s ball to-morrow night — nay, to-night, rather. 
She might be there; and if so, would she recognize him? 
This was an awful probability, and yet he could not bring 
himself to hope she would entirely forget him. 


CHAPTER II. 

He had just completed a flowery little speech expected 
of him by Lady Bellingham, who still considered herself 
young and lovely, and had stei3ped aside to prop himself 
against a friendly wall, when he saw “her^^ enter the 
room — she was already only that eloquent pronoun to him. 
If fair on that last hour he saw her, she was ten times 
fairer to-night in a lace gown, diaphanous, ivory-tinted, 
with here and there a purple bunch of the big Czar violet 
lost in its soft folds. She was smiling, and it seemed to 
Dare as if he had been blind to the sweetness of her eyes 
last night. Her skin was like the wild rose, and her hair 
strayed loosely over a thoughtful and therefore beautiful 
brow. 


THEIR LAST RESOURCE. 


107 


He went up to Lady Bellingham presently and asked for 
an introduction “ to the charming girl over there in the 
white gown.^’ 

“ They are all in white frocks,” said Lady Bellingham, 
“ like a set of silly cUhidantes. I never saw so much 
white in a room before. You will have to be a little more 
explicit.” She spoke petulantly. She was growing stout- 
er every day, and white was now beyond her. 

wish I could, said Dudley, laughing. “But the 
fact is, I donT know her name.” He had adhered to his 
resolution not to question his sisters about her. “ See, 
there y’* he went on, hastily — “ there she is now, with Sir 
Charles Lamprey. ” 

“Oh! Helen. Helen Bellasis. She is a cousin of 
mine.^’ She glanced at him with an amused smile. 
“ Another she said. “ You are the ninth man who 
has implored my assistance, and she has been only five 
minutes in the room. She is a great success, isn^t she? 
This is her first season, and already everybody wants to 
marry her.” 

Sir Dudley ^s heart rose. She was not married — then! 
Immediately afterward it sunk to zero. If they were all 
at her feet, what chance had he? 

“Be warned in time,” Lady Bellingham was saying, 
gayly. “ She is a witch, a siren. Steel your heart, or, 
better still, flee temptation. 

“ I feel how good it is of you to take all this trouble 
about me,” said Sir Dudley, mildly. “lam indeed grate- 
ful; but,” with a sudden smile, “ if you can manage that 
introduction, I shall be even more grateful still.” 


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“ You know no fear, then. You think yourself irre- 
sistible?^^ said she, with a shrug. “ The world has 
spoiled you."^ And, indeed. Sir Dudley, being without in- 
cumbrances and master of a very pretty income, had 
known what it was to be affectionately treated by dov7- 
agers, maidens, and frisky matrons. 

“ Coming from you, that is unkind,^^ replied he, in a 
low tone. “Have you found me ‘ irresistible The 
tender reproach in his tone pleased her. 

“ Tut!’^ she said, throwing up her handsome head. 
And then: “ Willful man must have his way, I suppose. 
Come, then, and let me make you known to Helen.'’ 

She moved forward, and Dudley followed her. A few 
moments later saw him standing before Miss Bellasis, her 
card in his hand. He had not found the courage to look 
at her whilst the introduction was going on, but now he 
stole a glance at her, to find she was gazing at him rather 
too attentively. He grew honestly confused. 

“ I have ventured to put my name down here,” he said, 
indicating the solitary vacancy upon her card. 

“Yes?” She held out her hand for the card, and 
leisurely read what he had written. “ Do you know,” she 
said, slowly, “ I have rather a curiosity to know your 
name.” She might mean little or nothing by this speech; 
she might mean a great deal. Dare felt that he was 
changing color. At this particular moment the waltz 
then being played came to an abrupt end, as some waltzes 
will, and after awhile Sir Dudley, offering her his arm, led 
her away to a conservatory. The next was a square 
dance, put in to make happy the middle-aged belles, and 


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109 


Miss Bellasis had declared her disinclination to have any- 
thing to do with it. 

When in the dimly lit conservatory she sunk upon a 
lounge, opened her fan in a leisurely fashion, and sudden- 
ly turned her eyes full on his. 

“ I can^t explain it,^^ she said, deliberately, “ it is the 
strangest thing — yet I can not help fancying that I have 
seen you somewhere before. 

The arrow went home; but he bore the wound with a 
courage undaunted. 

“ The most natural fancy possible,^^ he said; “ the Row 
is open to us all, and when one goes to two or three balls 
in a night, why — ” 

“ I do not think it was in the Row or at a ball I met 

/ 

you/* interrupted she, softly; “ though of course, with a 
presumably backward glance into her memory, “ it might 
have been in the J^ow. However — it wasnT. ” 

“ Perhaps,^ ^ said he, though he knew he was reddening 
like a wretched school-boy, “ you can recollect when it 
was I was so happy as to come within your notice 

“If I could remember, surely you could," she said. 
She leaned toward him. “ Have you ever seen me be- 
fore?" she asked, impressively. 

“ Seen you?" He repeated her question in a stammer- 
ing fashion, and then stopped short. Somehow he felt as 
if he could not tell her a lie — as if he could not deny the 
joy he had gained by his first glance at her. He grew 
silent, and stood there before her, frowning perplexedly, 
and most evidently embarrassed. 


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“Ah! you have/’ said she. 

She moved \]|uickly, and in doing so the lace flounces of 
her gown were caught and entangled by the prickly leaves 
of a cactus standing near. She tried to extricate herself 
from the treacherous grasp, but unsuccessfully. Dudley 
went hurriedly to the rescue. He bent over her. 

“ Allow me,” he said. The two ordinary words struck 
an answering chord. When had he last used them? She 
lifted her head as he set her free, and said quickly: 

“ Now, I know it!” 

SI 

He grew rather pale. Did she know it? and whence 
came that strange little gleam that shone in her eyes? She 
did not say anything more or volunteer any information as 
to this sudden knowledge that had flowed in upon her, and 
Dudley, who was now as one sitting on thorns, made up 
his mind to learn the worst at once. Anything was better 
than this nervous suspense. 

“ So you have found it out,” he said. “ You have dis- 
covered either me — or — my double. ” 

“Your double. Certainly not you,” she laughed; and 
reseated herself with all the air of one who is about to tell 
you a good thing. “ Why, it is the most absurd fancy,” 
she said. ‘\And you must really promise not to be 
offended, but the fact is your sister Mrs. Trevenning — she 
is your sister, isn’t she? Well, she has the most eccentric 
coachman in the world.” 

“ Indeed!” said he. He went down for a moment, and 
then rose again and struck out boldly. “Is it the eccen- 
tric coachman I resemble?” 

“ Ah! do not be offended at that. You need not. To 


THEIR LAST RESOURCE. 


Ill 


tell the truth, it is a marvelous resemblance. But there is 
quite a little history connected with that coachman, which, 
if you like, I shall tell you. ” 

He hastened to say it would give him infinite delight to 
hear anything from her lips; whereupon she ran through 
a light account of what was already too well known to 
him. 

“ Just now, she said as she finished it, “when you 
said, ‘ Allow me,^ it reminded me of the time when he ran 
up the steps and took the knocker out of my hand without 
‘by your leave, ^ or ‘ with your leave. ^ Troy de zele it 
seemed to me, but he seemed a dangerous person fo argue 
with, so I made no protestation. Surely,’^ smiling, “ you 
are not dangerous, and yet ” — reflectively — “ both in voice 
and feature you resemble liim. You must not be angry 
about this, because, as I have already hinted, he was a 
coachman quite out of the common.^' Again the clear 
eyes looked into his. Could it be possible for such sweet 
orbs to betray malicious amusement? 

“ Of course I am to be congratulated in that he wasn^t 
the ordinary sort,^^ said he, with an assumption of cheer- 
ful indifference that did him credit. 

Miss Bellasis leaned back in her chair and played idly 
with her fan. Was she about to quit the distasteful sub- 
ject? He racked his brain to try to find something in- 
teresting that should help her to this end, but even as he 
racked it she spoke. 

“ Do you know,^’ she said innocently, “ I think the 
Trevenning livery is the funniest I know. Who invented 
it: Whoever it was deserves public recognition. Light- 


112 


THEIR LAST RESOURCE. 


gray trousers and a claret-colored coat with white facings. 
Surely it is unique. 

“ I don^t know much about it/’ said he. “I haven ^t 
gone into that sort of tiling. But certainly what you say 
does sound uncommonly queer. You should reason with 
Mrs. Trevenning on the subject, who, it appears, is rather 
a friend of yours. 

“ Quite the dearest. We haven ^t a secret from each 
other, she and I. ” 

She looked at him as she said this, and whether his ex- 
pression amused her it would be impossible to say, but at 
all events she broke suddenly into a low delicious laugh. 

“ Isn^t it nice to have a friend like that?^^ she asked. 

“ I think it would be very nice to have a friend like 
you.'" 

She passed this over hurriedly. 

“ After all I don't think I shall speak to Mrs. Treven- 
ning about the livery," said she. “ The Trevennings are 
not new people that they should care what the world says. 
And besides— Oh! by the bye, there is one other thing 
about that remarkable coachman I quite forgot to tell you. 
Another touch of eccentricity. When leaving, he took off 
his hat to me. He didn't touch it, you will understand, he 
really tried to lift it. But it was too much for liim, it re- 
sisted his most earnest efforts. Poor man! It suggested 
itself to me this morning that perhaps he had once been in 
better circumstances; might have been almost a gentle- 
man. " 

“ He might," said Sir Dudley, grimly. He was now in 
a rage with himself. How on earth had he ever let himself 


THEIR LAST RESOURCE. 


113 


in for such a miserable sell? To act coachman to his own 
sisters; there wasn’t even the element of romance in it. 
He might have known he couldn’t act the part decently. 
To take off his hat! What an utter fool he had made of 
himself! 

“ I’m sure of it,” said Miss Bellasis, warmly. “ There 
was quite a little air in the way he tried to take off that 
hat In fact ” — she paused and lifted her eyes to his — “ I 
wasn’t half surprised enough, when afterward he put out 
his hand to bid me good-night!” 

“ What! Oh! I say, I know I didn’t go as far as 
that,” cried Sir Dudley, impetuously. 

It was all over then. Too late he stopped short. l^Iiss 
Bellasis rose to her feet. 

“ You I What have you to-do with it?” demanded she. 

“Just this ” — his glance grew beseeching — “ 1 was that 
coachman!” 

She moved back, as if in horror. 

“You!” she said. And then again — “You! And 
how, sir, is it that I now see you here masquerading in 
your master’s clothes?” 

“ No, no! They are my own, I assure you,” stammered 
be; whereupon the sternness she would have sustained lied 
from her, and the pretty eyes gave place to the laughter 
that was consuming them. For yet a little while she 
struggled with herself, and then subsided behind her fan. 

“ You knew it. You knew it all the time,” cried he, 
reproachfully, yet with a sense of extraordinary relief. He 
drew away with a determined hand the fan she held, and 
looked accusatively into her lovely, ria7ite face. 


114 


THEIR LAST RESOURCE. 


“ Not last night, indeed,^' exclaimed she; “ acquit me 
of that. But — this morning — 

“Yes. Goon. Who told you then?” 

“ Captain Carlton. He recognized you as you waited so 
patiently beneath the duchess’s lamps. ” , Patiently : she 
little knew! “ And what are you ashamed of, then?” said 
she: “ it was a mere freak after all, and I, for one, owe 
you a debt of gratitude: I should not have gone to that 
ball but for you, and — a man has been known to drive his 
-sisters before this.” 

“But hardly as their servant. However, I was not 
ashamed of it until — I saw you. ” 

“Oh! what have I to do with it?” said she. 

But she had the grace to blush as she said it, and for the 
first time she avoided his eyes. 

“ Everything. Not only with this absurd episode, but,” 
earnestly, “ with my whole life.” 

It was in effect a proposal, and Miss Bellasis grew very 
grave. 

“We have been here a long time, have we not?” she 
said, rising slowly, “ I am afraid I must ask you to take 
me back now to my aunt. Lady Bellasis.” 

“ One word,” entreated he. “ Are you staying with 
her, with Lady Bellasis? Yes? Then may I call to- 
morrow?” 

“ On her? I am ^sure ” — ^gravely — “ auntie will be very 
pleased to receive you. ” 

“Ah!” said he, “ that is something, but it is not 
enough. Shall I see you? Will you be pleased to receive 
me?” 


THEIR LAST RESOURCE. 


115 


“You ask a great deal,^’ she said, but she smiled. 
“ Have you forgotten that this is our first meeting?” 

“ Our second, rather.” 

“ Is that other to be counted? Well, our second then. ” 

One hand was hanging by her side. He took it and held 
it gently between both his own. His face as he did this 
was so earnest that she could not be angry with him. 

“ Helen,'^ he besought her, “ say you will be glad to see 
me.” 

“ How do you know my name?” She looked surprised 
and blushed vividly. 

“I heard Constance call you so; and having seen you, 
how could I forget anything that related to you. Helen! 
Tell me! I may come to-morrow?” 

“ Yes, come,” she answered softly. 


THE END. 


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NUMERICAL LIST, 


1 Yolande. By William Black. . 20 

2 Molly Bawn. “ The Duchess ” 20 

3 Mill on the Floss, The. By 


George Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By“Ouida” 20 

5 Admiral’s Ward. The. Bj' Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

6 Portia. By “The Duchess ”... 20 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gabo- 

riau 20 

8 East Lynne. Mrs. Henry Wood 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 

By “Ouida” 20 

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Charles Dickens 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock 20 

12 Other People’s Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 

Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

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16 Phyllis. By “The Ducliess”.. 20 

17 Wooing O’t, The. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

18 Shandon Bells. By Wm. Black 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. 

By Emile Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 

By Wm. Black 20 

22 David Copperfleld. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

22 David Copperfleld. By Charles 
Dickens. Vol. II 20 


23 Princess of Thule, A. By Will- 


iam Black 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 
Dickens. Voi. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. H 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. “ The Duchess.” 

(Large type edition) 20 

950 Mrs. Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 10 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. II 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray 20 

28 Ivanhoe. B.v Sir Walter Scott. 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

30 Faith and Unfaith. By “The 

Duchess” 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

First half 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

Second half 20 

32 Land Leaguers, The. By An- 

thony Trollope 20 

33 Clique of Gold, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau 10 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. First half 20 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. Second half. 20 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 
Dickens. Second half... 21 


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38 Widow Lerouge, The. By Emile 

Qaboriau 20 

89 In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 

40 Last Days of Pompeii, The. By 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

41 Oliver Twist. By Chas. Dickens 20 

42 Uomola. By George Eliot 20 

43 Mystery of Orcival, The. By 

Emile Qaboriau 20 

44 Macleod of Dare. Wm. Black. 20 

45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 

Reade 20 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oli- 

phant 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James 

Fayn 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 20 

50 Strange Adventures of a Phae- 

ton, The. By William Black. 20 
61 Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 20 

52 New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

5-3 Story of Ida, The. By Francesca 10 

54 Broken Wedding-Ring, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

55 Three Guardsmen, The. By 

Alexander Dumas 20 

56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

57 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront§. 20 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 

Christie Murray 10 

69 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 20 

60 Last of the MoHicans, The. By 

J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowson 10 

62 Executor, The. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

63 Spy, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

64 Maiden Fair, A. Charles Gibbon 10 

66 Back to the Old Home. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 10 

66 Romance of a Poor VoungMan, 

The. By Octave Feuillet 10 

67 Lorua Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. First half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. Second half 20 

68 Queen Amongst Women, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 10 

69 Madoliu’s Lover. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 

mance. By William Black .. 10 

71 Struggle for Fame, A. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell 20 

73 Old Myddelton’s Money. By 
Mary’ Cecil Hay 30 


Redeemed by Love; or. Love’s 


Victory. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 26 

Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

Twenty Years After. By Alex- 
ander Dumas 30 

Wife in Name Only; or, A Bro- 
ken Heart. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” . 20 

Tale of Two Cities, A. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 20 
Wedded and Parted. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

Daughter of Heth, A. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

Sealed Lips. F. Du Boisgobey. 20 


Hard Times. By Chas. Dickens 10 
Sea Queen, A. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 
Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen. By Jules Verne 20 

Privateersman, The. By Cap- 
tain Marryat 30 

Red Eric, The. By R. M. Ballan- 

tyne 10 

Ernest Mai tra vers. By Sir E. Bul- 
wer Lytton 20 

Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

Baruaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy 20 

Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. 

Ballantyne 10 

Erling the Bold. By R. M. Bal- 
lantyne 10 

All in a Garden Fair. By Wal- 
ter Besant 20 

Woman-Hater, A. By Charles 

Reade 20 

Barbara’s History. By Amelia 

B. Edwards 20 

20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 20 

Second Thoughts. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

Moonstone, The. Wilkie Collins 20 
Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 
Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. 1st half 30 

Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. 2d half 39 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


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105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 20 

106 bleak House. By Charles Dick- 


ens. First lialf 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 

ens. Second half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. , By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

108 Cricket on the Hearth, The. 

By Charles Dickens 10 

108 Doctor Marigold. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

109 Little" Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 10 

111 Little School-master Mark, The. 

By J. H. Shorchouse 10 

112 Waters of Marah,The. By John 

Hill 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wightwick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. C. 

J. Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

116 Moths. By “Ouida” 20 


117 Tale of the Shore and Ocean, A. 

By William H. G. Kingston.. 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 

Eric Dering. “ The Duchess ” 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes. 20 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin 

McCarthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black 20 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. 

By William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black.. 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “Ouida” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

130 Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 

E. Bulwer Lytton. 1st half.. 20 

130 Last of the Barons, The. By Sir 

E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 


Dickens. First half 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By William 

H. G. Kingston 10 


134 Witching Hour, The, and Other 

Stories. By “The Duchess ”. 10 

135 Great Heire^, A : A Fortune in 

Seven Cliecks. By R. E. Fran- 
cillon 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 

Other Stories. By “ The 
Duchess” 10 


137 Uncle .lack. By Walter Besant 10 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By Wm. Black 20 

139 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 

maid, The. By Thomas Hardy 10 

140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 

ter Besant 10 

141 She Loved Him! By Annie 

Thomas 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. By John 

B. Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By Emile 

Gaboriau 10 


145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan. 20 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Walter Besant 
and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Troll- 

ope 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

149 Captain’s Daughter, The. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

151 Ducie Diamonds, The. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152 Uncommercial Traveler, The. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Buch- 

anan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156 “ Fora Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin . 20 

157 Milly’sHero. By F. W. Robinson 20 

158 Starling. The. By Norman 

Macleod. D.D 10 

159 Captain Norton’s Diary, and 

A Moment of Madness. By 
Florence Marryat 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler 10 

161 Lady of Lyons, The. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lytton 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 

rell 20 

164 Leila ; or. The Siege of Grenada. 

By Bulwer Lytton 10 

165 History of Henry Esmond, The. 

By AVilliam M. Thackeray .. . 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thorouglifare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

169 Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus. First half 20 


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170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus. Second half 20 

171 Fortune’s Wheel. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 
\iz Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge. 20 

175 Love’s Random Sliot. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 Millionaire, The 20 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Florence Marryat.. 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

186 Canon’s Ward, The. By James 

Payn 20 

187 Midnight Sun, The. By Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 


190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
ot “Dora Thorne” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 20 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 Rosary Folk, The. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!” 

By Alison 10 

195 “ Way of the World, The.” By 

David Christie Murray 20 

1% Hidden Perils. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 Husband’s Story, A 10 

199 Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beale 10 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

201 Monastery, The. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

302 Abbot, The. Sequel to “ The 
Monastery.” By Sir Walter 
Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
305 Minister’s Wife, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

206 Picture, The, and Jack of All 
grades. By Charles Reade.. 10 


Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 20 

Ghost of Charlotte Cray, The, 
and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By AV. Clark Russell 10 

Readiana : Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 
Octoroon, The. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

First half 20 

Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

Second half 20 

Terrible Temptation, A. By 

Chas. Reade 20 

Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey. . 20 

Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 20 
Man She Cared For, The, By 

F. A\’. Robinson 20 

Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 20 
Lady Clare ; or. The Master of 
the Forges. From the French 

of Georges Oh net 10 

Which Loved Him Best? By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen 

B. Mathers 20 

Sun-Maid, The. By Miss Grant 20 
Sailor’s Sweetheart, A. By AV. 

Clark Russell 20 

Arundel Motto, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

Giant’s Robe, The. By F. Anstey 20 

Friendship. By “Ouida” 20 

Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton . 20 
Princess Napraxine. “Ouida” 20 
Maid, AA^'ife, or AA’idow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 20 

Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 20 

Love and Money; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. 10 
“ I Say No;” or. The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. By Wilkie CoJ- 

lins 20 

Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 


“ It is Never Too Late to Mend.” 

By Charles Reade 20 

AVhich Shall It Be? By Mrs. 

Alexander 30 

Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

Pascarel. By “Ouida” 20 

Bigna. By “.Ouida” 20 

Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 
Baby’s Grandmother, The. By 
L. B. Walford .. 10 


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TUB SEA8IDK L/HKAKY — Pocket Editiok. 


5 


242 Two Orphans, The. By D’En- 

nery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. First half... 20 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. Second half. 20 

244 Great Mistake, A. By the author 

of “ Cherry ” 20 

245 Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 10 
24C Fatal Dower, A. By the Author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

247 Armourer’s Prentices, The. By 

Cnai-lotte M. Yonge 10 

248 House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Diana’s 

Discipline. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

251 Daughter of the Stars, The, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called 
Back ” 10 

252 Sinless Secret, A. By “ Rita ” 10 

253 Amazon, The. By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 Wife’s Secret, The, and Fair but 

False. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . 10 

255 Mvstery, The. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

ByL. B. Walford 20 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 

geant 10 

258 Cousins. ByL. B. Walford 20 

259 Bride of Monte-Cristo, The. A 

Sequel to “The Count of 
Monte-Cristo.” By Alexan- 
der Dumas 10 

2C0 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

201 Fair Maid, A. By F. AV. Robin- 

son 20 

202 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part I 20 
262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part II 20 

203 An Isbmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

304 Piodouche, a French Detective. 

By FortunO Du Boisgobey... 10 
205 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 
Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black.... 20 
*06 Water-Babies, The. A Fairy 
Tale for a Land-Baby. By the 
Rev. Charles Kingsley 10 

267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The Mi- 

ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

•ro Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 1 20 


270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Part II 20 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Part 1 20 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Part II 20 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marryat 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or. The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 
Betham-Ed wards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 Three Brides, The. By Char- 

lotte M. Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. 

By Florence Marryat (Mrs. 
Francis Lean) 10 

277 Surgeon’s Daughters, The, by 


Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
His Word, by W. E. Norris... 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little (3oldie : A Story of ’Wom- 

an’s Love. By Mrs. Sumner 


Hayden 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

281 Squire’s Legacy, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald 20 

283 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By 

Charlotte M. Bi’aeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

284 Doris. By " The Duchess ” 10 

285 Gambler’s Wife, The 20 

286 Deldee ; or, The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

287 At War With Herself. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 1# 

923 At War With Herself. By (Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 
edition) 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or 

FVom Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 
type edition) 20 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “Brutal 
Saxon” 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

291 Love's Warfare. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

892 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 10 

293 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” ^8 


6 


THE SEASn)E LHiRAET— Pocket Edition. 


948 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 
edition) 20 

294 Hilda; or, The False Vow. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

928 Hilda; or. The False Vow. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 
type edition) 20 

295 Woman’s War, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

952 Woman’s War, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme. (Large type edi- 
tion) 20 

296 Rose in Thorns, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Mar- 

riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 


298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 10 

302 Blatchford Bequest, The. By 

Hugh Conway , author of 
“Called Back” 10 

303 Ingledew House. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

305 Dead Heart, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

306 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

307 Two Kisses. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- 

niore Cooper 20 

310 Prairie, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

.311 Two Years Before the Maat. 

By R H. Dana, Jr 20 

812 Week in Killarney, A. By “ The 

Duchess” ... 10 

813 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoey , 20 

514 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill ... 20 
815 Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited 
by Miss M. £. Braddon 80 


316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 

Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

317 By Mead and Stream. By Chas. 

Gibbon 88 

318 Pioneers, The ; or. The Sources 

of the Susquehanna. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 

320 Bit of Human Nature, A. By 

David Christie Murray. . ; 10 

321 Prodigals, The: And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 10 

322 Woman’s Love-Story, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

323 Willful Maid, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

325 Portent, The. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 
George Macdonald 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

(Translated from the French 
of Fortun6 Du Boisgobey.) 
First half 29 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

(Translated from the French 
of Fortun6 Du Boisgobey.) 
Second half 20 

329 Polish Jew, The. (Translated 

from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 
Chatrian 10 

330 May Blossom : or. Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 


332 Judith Wynne. By author of 

“Lady Lovelace ” 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh: or. Scenes 

From the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 

334 Marriage of Convenience, A. 

By Harriett Jay 10 

335 White Witch, The. A Novel. . . 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

338 Family Dimculty, The. By Sa- 

rah Doudney 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

342 Baby, The. By “ The Duchess ” 19 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY -Pocket Edition 

Always Uncliang^ed and Unabridged. 

LATES'J’ ISSUES: 


NO. PRICK. 

669 Pole on Whist 20 

432 THE WITCH’S HEAD. By 

H. Bider Haggard 20 

966 He, by the author of “King 
Solonnon’s Wives”; and A 
Siege Baby and Childhood’s 
Memories, by J. S. Winter 20 

968 Blossom and Fruit; or, Ma- 

dame’s Ward. By the author 
of “Wedded Hands” 20 

969 The Mystery of Colde Fell ; or. 

Not Proven. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

970 King Solomon’s Wives; or. The 

Phantom Mines. By Hyder 
Ragged. (Blustrated) 20 

971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

Blankhampton. John Strange 
Winter 20 

972 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 20 

973 The Squire’s Darling. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

974 Strathmore; or. Wrought by 

His Own Hand. By“Ouida.” 
First half 20 

974 Strathmore; or. Wrought bj' 

His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” 
Second half 20 

975 A Dark Marriage Morn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

976 Robur the Conqueror; or, A 

Trip Round the World in a 


Flying Machine. Jules Verne 20 

977 The Haunted Hotel. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

978 Her Second Love. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

979 The Count’s Secret. By Emile 

Gahoriau. Parti 20 

979 The Count’s Secret. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Part II 20 

980 To Call Her Mine. By Walter 

Besant 20 

981 Granville de Vigne; or. Held in 

Bondage. By “Ouida.” 1st 
half 20 

981 Granville de Vigne; or. Held in 

Bondage. By “Ouida.” 2d 
half 20 

982 The Duke’s Secret. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

983 Uarda. A Romance of Ancient 

Egypt. By George Ebers 20 


NO. PRICK. 

984 Her Own Sister. By E. S. 

Williamson 20 

985 On Her Wedding Morn, and 

The Mystery of the Holly- 
Tree. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. . . 20 

986 The Great Hesper. By Frank 

Barrett 20 

987 Brenda Yorke, and Upon the 

Waters. By Mary Cecil Hay. 20 

988 The Shattered Idol, and Letty 

Leigh. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

989 Allan Quatermain. By H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

990 The Earl’s Error, and Arnold’s 

Promise. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 20 

991 Mr. Midshipman Easy. By Cap- 

tain Marry at 20 

992 Marrying and Giving in Mar- 

riage. By Mrs. Molesworth... 20 

993 Fighting the Air. . By Florence 

Marryat 20 

994 A Penniless Orphan. By W. 

Helmburg 20 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, and 

That Beautiful Lady. Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

996 Idalia. By “ Ouida.” 1st half. 20 

996 Idalia. By “Ouida.” 2d half. 20 

997 Forging the Fetters, and The 

Australian Aunt. By Mrs. 
Alexander 20 

998 Open, Sesame 1 By Florence 

Marryat 20 

999 The Second Wife. E. Marlitt. 20 
1000 Puck. By “ Ouida.” 1st half 20 
1000 Puck. By “Ouida.” 2d half . 20 
1002 Marriage at a Venture. By 


Emile Gaboriau 20 

1004 Mad Dumare.sq. By Florence 

Marryat 20 

1005 99 Dark Street. F.W. Robinson 20 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

1007 Miss Gascoigne. By Mrs. J. 

H. Riddell 20 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart. Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

1009 In an Evil Hour, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 20 

1010 Golden Gates. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 


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* ' 


% 


4 


4 




\ 





4 



« 


I 











